The Footman and the Gentleman
by Yel Ashaya
Summary: Based on series four's 'The Unicorn and the Wasp'. Sir Roger Curbishley fell in love with his family's footman Davenport. Yet, Edwardian England is not so accepting of this 'love that dare not speak its name', and the pair face many obstacles. This is my attempt at uncovering the evolution of their relationship. And, as a bonus, the Doctor and Donna scenes are included!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: My first Doctor Who fic! (So be kind). A while ago, I re-watched 'The Unicorn and the Wasp'. It's a great episode, and the characters of Davenport and Roger Curbishley seemed really interesting. I felt, though, that their relationship was a little under-developed in the canon, and a little under-appreciated in the fandom, so here's my take on their relationship. Everything I know from this period is down to Julian Fellowes' Downton (if you've not seen it, do!)**

 **I have, of course, used dialogue from the actual episode later on. Doctor Who and its characters are not mine, except for OCs (which are totally mine).**

 **The first two chapters are my attempt at a backstory for Roger...**

 **Reviews would be welcome!**

Roger Curbishley was thinking. Deeply. He looked around the room, as if it could offer any answers.

He had gotten a telephone call from one of his dearest friends.

"Roger, my friend, would you be accompanying the boys and I to the Mapletree dance?" the voice at the other end of the line had asked, hope in the tone.

Roger wiped his brow and sighed. "What sort of dance is it, John?"

John cleared his throat. "I don't understand, Roger. It is a dance. Lord knows my knowledge of dancing is appalling!" He chuckled to himself.

Roger did not join in. "I mean, is it a ball? A festival?"

John sobered. "Just a ball, I presume."

Roger nodded his head slowly but did not reply.

"What do you say, old chap?" his friend asked.

He bit his lip in thought. "I shall think about it."

"Well, you had better think quickly," John quipped. "For it is this weekend."

Roger thought. It was Thursday now. "What time?"

John smiled to himself. He was coming. "Five o'clock, I believe. At least, that is what Lord Timothy told me."

"I will consider, John, you have my word," Roger decided, his collar suddenly tight.

John smiled. "Well, we may be unsure about your presence on Saturday, but we can be sure that there will be some handsome ladies there."

Roger's hand wandered to his hair; he raked it back. "Yes," he said uneasily. "As I said, I shall consider it."

"I hope you do attend, dear fellow," John said fondly. "Goodbye, Roger."

As the line went dead, Roger held the device for a few moments, then put the receiver and the mouthpiece back on their respective hooks. He stared at the piano through the door. He went over to it and flicked through the papers that were resting on the music stand.

He picked one, had a quick read through of the script, then put his feet to the peddles and his fingers to the keys.

"Roger!" a voice came down the hall.

He span around abruptly, leaving the last note he had pressed to ring. "Mother?"

"Roger, dearest," the woman called. "Pray, who was that on the telephone?" she asked.

He bent down to pick up a stray music score. "It was John, of course. John Merchant."

His mother nodded. "What was it that he was asking for?"

"He wished to invite me to a ball. You see, I spoke to him a couple of days ago, at the shooting range," he said plaintively.

She smiled, slightly raised an eyebrow. "A ball?"

"Well, more like a simple dance, I should think," he reiterated.

"Shall you be attending? When is it, Saturday?" she asked.

He nodded. "Yes, it is Saturday afternoon," he answered for her. "Whether or not I am going is a different matter."

She nodded. "I see. You should go, it would do you good. You rarely go anywhere besides to shoot or ride."

He nodded gracefully, but when she had gone, he sighed and went back to his piano playing. If it had not been for his previously broken finger, he would have been a world-renowned player, so his mother said.

When he was twelve, he had broken the middle finger on his left hand playing football at Harrow School. It had healed in the fifteen years since, but it still smarted to touch and hindered him in some things.

But he had not given up on his piano skills yet. He was the only one in the household who used the magnificent instrument. His mother found it adorable and sweet but failed to see its importance other than the skills Roger had for playing it and his father dismissed it as noise.

As the day dragged on, the summons to dinner came. Roger had spent most of the day preoccupied with his piano playing, but he had another thing at the back of his mind. The ball. The party. Whatever it was, he was not sure whether or not he wanted to go. He knew that he probably should go, but that went against his wishes. There was no point in him going if he would not enjoy himself.

When he had not been at the piano, he had walked in the gardens. They were exquisite: acre upon acre of lush green grass, bordered by a patchwork of flowers and fruit. In the centre was a magnificent fountain, displaying a statue of arrow-shooting Cupid. With a glass of wine and a cool breeze over him, Roger found it easy to lose himself in his thoughts this way.

He made his way to dinner, from the garden, having been called by a servant.

The dining room was large, but regardless of the amount of light sources, both artificial and natural, it always seemed to be dingy. The dark oak panels of the walls accentuated the effect.

He sat beside his mother, as he always did, with his father, Colonel Curbishley.

The servants came in, laying the food on the table. They lifted the tops of the dishes for the family to see the splendid meal. The butler stepped forward, an elderly man. He poured the three of them their wine and then bowed and continued with his duties.

Colonel Curbishley took a mouthful of the steak. "I say, this is good."

His wife agreed with a nod of her head.

Roger was sat sipping at his wine delicately.

"Son, what do you think?" his father asked.

Roger did not hear him, it appeared. Another asking of the question broke him out of his reverie. "I, uh, this is most agreeable," he stuttered.

His mother caught his eye. She frowned slightly. "Roger, dear, what is it?"

He shrugged his shoulders and continued drinking his wine, not touching his food. "Nothing, mother."

She sighed. "Roger, dear, something is troubling you. You look a bit preoccupied."

He shook his head and gathered that he should start eating. "No, I am quite well, I assure you."

"Have you thought anymore about this dance?" Colonel Curbishley asked him. "Your mother told me about it."

He sighed and tried not to roll his eyes. "Yes, I have. I will go," he said, his mouth a straight line, as if he did not care.

"Good!" she exclaimed. "I am sure you will have a grand time."

"That reminds me, Roger," his father added. "Perhaps some beauty will catch your eye. No doubt she will be well bred." He felt the disapproving glare of his wife on him.

Roger nodded and took a swig of his wine, calling for some more. "Perhaps," he said in a small voice.

He took the rest of the wine, drank it, ate all of his dinner. "I think I will retire now," he said, about to stand up.

"Now?" his father repeated. "It is-" He glanced at the clock on the mantlepiece. "Barely eight o'clock."

Roger nodded simply. "I know, father, but I went on a long walk today and I think that I could benefit from a good sleep."

"Goodnight, son," he said. His mother nodded. "Sleep well."

He retreated upstairs, dragging his feet behind him. He was tired. He had walked for a while. But that was not why he wanted an early night.

A servant prepared a bath for him. He stayed in it for longer than need be. He dried, changed, then lay down in the bed, closed his eyes.

...

It was the day of the dance, Saturday. Much like Thursday and Friday had, Saturday morning passed slowly and dully. Except Saturday morn meant that the dance was fast approaching. He had of course chosen what to wear. He would take the car, not the horse and chariot.

But something was at the back of his mind, eating away. His train of thought was broken when a telephone call came through. He went to answer it, brushing off any servant who tried to reach it.

"John?" he asked.

"Yes, Roger, it is me. You are decided about the dance?"

Roger nodded slowly. "Yes. You shall see me there promptly after the start."

"I look forward to seeing you there, old chap," John said. "I presume you will be taking the motorcar?"

Roger allowed a smile to crack his face. "Yes, I shall."

"I must invest in one of those," John said ruefully.

"They are awfully slow, John, if a little more comfortable than horseback," Roger said.

"I am glad that you are coming, or else I fear that the only source of company would be dear Timothy and Robert," John said jokingly. "Goodbye, Roger."

Roger put the telephone back and told a servant to tell his mother and father that their son was leaving shortly.

So he departed for the motorcar, a beautiful, black piece of machinery with red leather seats and wooden interior. Of course, it was not his car. It was his father's, but since he was wheelchair-bound, Roger had taken ownership of it.

He got into the car. The driver looked at him in the mirror. "Sir, where to?"

Roger told him the address. He looked anxiously at his watch. He had been to a party in years and could not remember how long they were. He did not want to spend any more time than necessary at the venue. He would be in and out in no time.

The car cruised down the sandy road, its engine humming loudly. They just about overtook a lad on his bike. As the Ford pulled up in the long drive, gravel crunched underneath it. The driver pulled the handbrake and waved his passenger to the destination. "Here we are, sir. What time will you be expecting me to call back?"

"I shall ensure that a telephone call gets sent to the house," Roger decided. He stepped out of the car and was escorted to the front door of the house by a servant.

"Roger!" John exclaimed as he caught sight of his friend.

He stood awkwardly by the fire. "John, I have come."

"You have indeed, my friend," he observed. "Come, I'll call for a drink for you." He waved over a butler, who poured some wine for the newest guest.

Roger took the glass and accepted the butler's slight nod of respect.

"I must say, your car really is spiffing," he said, smiling. "It must have been dear."

"My father bought it, but he has told me that he haggled the price." Despite himself, he smiled.

So did John. "Indeed."

"Is that Timothy Weatherington?" Roger asked his friend.

"Timothy?" John repeated, then followed Roger's line of sight. "I think it might be. Come, why don't we introduce ourselves?"

"It is good to see you," Timothy said, flanked by a few other gentlemen. "How are we?"

Roger nodded imperceptibly. John smiled. "Very well, thank you. And you, yourself?'

"Likewise, John," he said. He turned to his side. "Daniel, what are you looking at?" He smiled at the four young women stood at the other end of the room, gossiping. "Oh, yes. There are many handsome women here."

Roger retrieved another glass of wine, drank it.

"She, especially so," John observed, indicating the woman with red hair, on the right.

She lifted her eyes and smiled.

The men all turned to face one individual.

Roger glanced up from his glass. "What is it?"

"She is looking at you, Roger," John said.

Roger tried to ignore him.

"I think she must be Veronica Fairbrother," Timothy added. "Her father is very affluent, I hear. Her brother saved ten men in The War, earned a medal."

Roger cleared his throat. "I think I'll go, gentlemen. I do not feel quite right. Something I must have eaten."

"You haven't eaten anything," John observed.

Roger silently cursed John's watchfulness. "Earlier. Something I ate earlier," he clarified. He turned to leave. His cheeks heated up when he saw a dashing young servant approaching, serving drinks. Roger closed his eyes, waiting for time to stop. He opened them; the boy was gone.

"Veronica Curbishley," Timothy mused. "Has a nice ring to it, does it not?"

Roger felt his cheeks heat up. "Sorry, chaps, but I must press on."

"Surely you will stay an hour?" John asked. "Veronica never looks away from you."

Roger nodded waveringly. "But I will look away from her."

John raised an eyebrow. "Have you ever seen such a beauty? Well bred, too."

"I do not care for her," Roger muttered. "Nor do I for any other." He looked into his empty wine glass.

John sighed. He lead his friend away. "Come on, Roger. With your father unable to do much for himself-"

"What does this have to do with my father?" Roger interrupted.

John considered. "You may as well go and speak to the woman."

Roger shook his head. "It would be a pointless exercise."

"I would not be able to resist a woman such as Lady Fairbrother's daughter, Roger!" John admitted, chuckling. He watched his friend with confusion.

Roger ignored him. "Yes, well, as I said. I will be going now. I hope you gentlemen don't mind."

"I must protest, Roger," John said. "You seem troubled; is something wrong?"

Roger shook his head, looked away, only to see Veronica Fairbrother's pale, serene, expectant face watching him. "No," he said abruptly. "I am absolutely fine. I just feel a little ill. Perhaps it is food poisoning, a cold."

But John had known the man too long. He scoffed. "By God, man, what is it?"

"Not here," Roger said timidly.

John thought it odd. Roger was usually such a bright person, now he seemed rather unresponsive and preoccupied. "As you wish. Why don't we take a stroll?"

Roger nodded his head curtly. "Why not?"

They walked together into the gardens. They were smaller and less impressive than at the Curbishleys' house, but somehow tidier and more vibrant.

"Come on, out with it, man," John pressed him.

"I do not wish to seek an audience with, let alone marry, Miss Fairbrother," he said distantly.

John's eyebrows rose. "Whyever not?"

Roger shrugged and turned to the side.

"Why, I have never met such an odd man!" he exclaimed, but there was a friendly smile on his lips. "She is by far the most beautiful woman in the county, Roger. She has eyes for you. Why, it makes perfect sense, your mother's affluence, that of Miss Fairbrother's family."

Roger nodded solemnly. "That is what unnerves me." His voice was barely audible, sounding detached and dull.

John nodded slowly, frowned. He pondered his friend's answer. "I have known you since Harrow, Roger. I have never known you as one for riddles. Be straight with me."

He shuffled his feet. "You may not want to know me if I tell you."

His friend sighed, swirling the wine in the glass. He looked up and set a hand on Roger's stiff shoulder. "Come on, what is it?"

Roger would not, could not, tell him. Not if he wanted to save his and his family's reputation. "I think the cold has gotten into my head. I am not thinking, nor saying, the right things."

"I am a doctor, Roger," John said pointedly. "That was not going to fool me."

His friend's face was pure sympathy, compassion, kindness. Yet, Roger could not bring himself to reply. He could form the words in his head but his mouth could not say them.

"Do you ever speak to patients about issues regarding the mind?" Roger asked quietly, not looking at his friend.

John nodded. "Yes. Not often. We call them mental health impairments, now."

"Hmmm," Roger huffed.

"There was a reason for your asking such a thing," John said.

Roger bit his lip and nodded. "Yes."

John signalled for him to elaborate. "Do you think you are suffering from shock, depression, what?"

So he did. "I feel as though… as though." He paused. "The… Italian vice."

John let out a breath. He knew what _that_ meant. Silence filled the air.

"I ought to be going now," Roger muttered, but his arm was caught by John. He looked over his shoulder. "John, let me go. I shan't speak to you again."

He sighed and shook his head. "I want us to remain friends, Roger. No need for such an extreme reaction. There are treatments for such an ailment."

 _Ailment._ Roger swallowed hard.

"You look worried," John observed. "I shall not be telling anyone."

"Why ever not? It is wrong, disgusting. Why me?" He groaned.

"What other people think is immaterial. You are a man of God, Roger, aren't you?" he asked.

"Indeed. I am a good friend of Reverend Golightly," he replied. "I would never wish to shame God, yet I have. Even worse, I have acted on it."

John cleared his throat, evidently unsure of what to say.

"I have burdened you, I am sorry," Roger murmured. "It is late. I shall have to leave now."

John nodded. "I can't say I understand this, Roger, nor can you, I am sure. But the union of a man and a woman is second nature. You cannot be incapable of it. You'll see."

Roger turned on his heel, weaving his way through the crowds.

"Send a telephone message to Curbishley House, would you?" he said to the first servant that he saw.

The man turned his back. Olive-hued eyes, almond hair, intelligent face. "Curbishley House? Yes, sir."

Roger stepped back and waited, tapping his foot in agitation, as the boy made the telephone call. He returned. "It is all done. Your driver will be here shortly. Is there anything else?"

Roger blinked. The man was beautiful. "No. Not at all. That is quite enough." He breathed a sigh of relief as the footman went on with his duties.


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm quite all right," Roger said defensively, folding his arms.

John frowned. "Look, Roger, my friend." He waited for the man to start paying attention. "I am still thinking about what you told me on Saturday."

Roger swallowed and glanced at his friend, momentarily. "Yes?"

"Perhaps there is some sort of medication you could take, for your, uh, affliction," John said delicately.

"Affliction?" Roger repeated, his eyebrows drawing together.

"Maybe that was the wrong word. But I can see that something is not right. What was it so recently that made you decide that you were that way... inclined?" John asked.

Roger's walking pace slowed a little as he thought. "Truth be told, I am not certain. Perhaps it was God himself who decided that I should be this way, perhaps it is an inherited condition amongst my family. I do not know." He sighed.

"But?" John pressed, sensing that there was another point.

"But I suppose it must be the abundance of the opposite sex that I was presented with on Saturday," he said. "I mean, I felt attracted to none of those women, yet they were all beautiful. A man should, when called upon, look with desire on a woman, should he not?"

John could see the confusion and desperation in his friend's face; his clear blue eyes were tinged with sadness. "That would seem conventional," he decided to say.

"And who am I to go against conventions?" Roger mocked himself.

"I think it might rain," John said blankly, looking up at the sky. "Oh, yes," he said in realisation of Roger's question. "Are you saying that you have never looked upon a woman with desire and love?"

Roger shook his head gently, as if willing himself to say otherwise. "Yes, that is what I am saying. But I have looked upon men with desire."

John bit his lip. "Roger?"

He nodded solemnly. "It is wrong, very wrong, I know. I try to act the man I should be. Dare I say that I prevail!" He laughed hollowly. "Carnal and degraded," he muttered.

John span his umbrella languidly in his hand.

"Why must it be I that is like this?" he moaned. "Have I ever offended the Lord? Have I?"

John had no words, but he wanted to say something to his friend of years. "I don't think the Lord passes this as a punishment, Roger."

"By George, I have never even been with a woman!" Roger exclaimed as a bitter taste rose in his mouth.

"I should hope not. You are not married," John justified.

Roger looked at him wryly. "You and I both know that that is not an excuse."

"If you don't mind my asking," John began slowly, holding his umbrella still, waiting for the rain. "If you take offence, then I beg your forgiveness, but have you ever-" He broke off as pride and social convention took a hold of him.

It was gloomy outside, with the wind howling and the sky dark. Roger did not mind. Gloomy weather was cause for people to stay inside their warm houses, leaving the roads and parks virtually isolated from humanity. "Laid with a man?" Roger finished for him. "Yes, I have. On many occasions." He had no idea why he said it so quickly.

John coughed, though there was nothing to shift. "I think, if I were to introduce you to a lady or two, not in as public a place as last time, your skills with them should improve. You will learn of their pleasures and will not want to trade them in for something else."

Roger knitted his brow as he went over the doctor's words in his head, then his expression changed into one of horror. "God, John, no!" he exclaimed. "I could never-!"

John nodded indifferently. "Come on, I know a nice little place."

Roger stomped off, leaving the shorter John to jog after him. "How you could ask me to engage in such depravity, really, John!"

"It is not technically illegal, Roger. Calm down." John smiled.

Roger shook his head fervently. "No-" he said silently.

"Max Redfern is quite adept with these sorts of things, you know," John said.

"Maximilian?" Roger repeated. "Never."

"Aye," John countered. "Say, it is all ready rather dark. You'll no doubt be wanting your mind in other places. Why don't we pay old Max a visit?"

They reached Max Redfern's estate, a spacious brick-coloured house sitting in a gravel-filled drive. Strolling through the two hedges that marked the entrance, they came to the door, pulled the bell. They were greeted by a servant.

The servant called to his master and Max came bumbling down the stairs, seemingly half-dressed. It was barely eight o'clock in the evening.

When the servant had gone away, Max asked the two of them, "I have just had the most excellent wine imported from Sicily. Join me, won't you?"

"Sadly, no," John answered. "Not today. Roger was wondering if you knew of any gentlemen's establishments."

Max laughed, his blonde hair flapping in his face. "Boy, it's barely eight, Roger! And this is hardly a fitting conversation for the front porch!"

Roger waited for Max to sober. "You know, I think I have had a change of heart. Let's go, John."

John could feel his friend's glare but he continued. "Won't you come with us?"

"I think I might," Max decided, delighting in Roger's deflated face.

They hailed a cab upon reaching the high street, which took them further into town. All the shops were closed except for the pubs and theatres and brothels.

"Chaps, I really must be-" Roger was cut off by Max.

"Come on, Roger, you've got the money. Why not spend it on something you're going to enjoy? Granted, cars and clothes are wonderful, but there are better things." Max nudged Roger's elbow.

"This is wrong, morally wrong," Roger muttered. He turned to John, hoping him to be sane. "We ought to turn away."

"Because gentlemen don't behave like this?" Max added. He scoffed. "Where else do folk think we spend our money?"

"John," Roger began through gritted teeth. "We should go."

"Roger, stop fretting. It's cheap, it's fun. And it will act as medication for you." He lowered his voice. "You have told me that you have never known a woman and by your telling me I took you to feel bad about it. So, this should revitalise you. Remind you of what is natural and why."

They entered an alleyway. It stank of rats and urine and burnt out oil lamps, for there was rarely viable electricity.

Roger was shoved in first by his friends. As soon as he had gone through the door, he was met with the sickeningly dazzling atmosphere; the putrid smells, the women so covered in powder and lipstick and rouge and kohl that they were halfway to being clowns, the men whom one would have called decent if the situation had been different.

Roget turned when he felt a hand on his arm; it was dainty and pale, the nails painted red.

"Haven't seen you in here before. Pity. Perhaps I would've done you an extra special service," she hissed.

"And why is that?" he managed to get out.

"Most of our customers are much worse kept. You're a gentleman, I can see that," she continued, her hands now on his neck, stroking softly.

"In title only," he murmured, trying to look away from her dark, daring eyes.

"Come now, stop feeling sorry for yourself," she teased. "You want a little dance? Upstairs, perhaps?"

Roger took the pause as time to have a quick glance around. He could see John a few metres off at the bar, drinking some no-doubt-toxic liquid. Max was hidden from his view by a cavorting woman.

In the meantime, his woman had pressed her hands to his head, was gently combing her fingers through his dark hair. She was substantially shorter than him, but their faces were more or less level when she stood on the tips of her toes.

She kissed his cheek, then his neck, then his cheek again, her fingers intricately tracing his jaw. At last their lips met.

She pulled away and smiled with mock innocence. "You know you want to."

He hesitated.

"You're not shy are you?" she asked. "Is it the money? Forget about it. I'm very good at making men forget. Now, come on, upstairs."

He did not move. "I don't want to. This isn't right-"

She bit his ear. "Shhh... What's your name?"

"Roger," he wheezed.

Before he knew it, he was sat on a grimy bed in a room with no windows. When the door closed, the only light was a pathetic lamp in the corner.

The girl approached him slowly, her steps measured. "I bet you're not used to this, are you?"

He tried to ward off her affections, but it was to no avail. He caught her face in the lamp's dying light and decided that she would have been quite beautiful had she not plastered her body in artificial inks and powders and creams.

She sat in his lap, her arms around his neck. Slowly, expertly, she began to kiss him. Her mouth touched every part of his face, his neck.

"Must be hot in that suit, Roger," she whispered.

He couldn't deny that he felt rather warm, but that was all it was. He shrugged off his jacket. She grinned at him. "Why don't I help you with this?" Before he could answer, she had unbuttoned his shirt.

There, she showered his chest with kisses, wrapping her legs around his hips.

"Don't be shy," she purred, undoing her dress.

He stared at her naked form; beautiful though it was, it did not phase him. He wanted it to, though, then he would be sure that it was normal. She took his hand and placed it to her breast. He snatched it away.

"No," he muttered. "No!" He shoved her off him, gathered up his clothes, threw too much money at her, then stormed out.

Then stormed all the way home, not even taking a taxi.


	3. Chapter 3

He read the newspaper, tried to. His gaze met the words and the images, the poorly copied photographs, but none of the information was going in. Stretching his legs, he folded the paper and dropped it on his knees.

"I don't understand why we need a new footman," he thought out loud. "What is wrong with Fitzgerald?"

His father smiled at him thinly. "Fitzgerald is old, Roger. Why, I believe he has been here for nearly fifty years, ever since he was much younger than you."

Roger nodded. He knew that Fitzgerald was old, very old, but he liked him. The man had been in the household since before Roger was born and Roger had never known a day to pass without Fitzgerald the footman.

"I suppose so," Roger conceded. "I shall miss him greatly, though."

"As will your mother and I," his father added.

"Have you met with this new footman?" Roger asked his father.

Colonel Curbishley nodded slowly. "I have indeed. He is a delightful fellow."

"Would you care for some tea?" Roger asked his father. "I was going to call for some."

"Earl Grey, of course," the Colonel specified.

Moments later, with the kettle boiled and the tea strained, the servant brought the teapot and two mugs, accompanied on the tray by sugar and milk.

As Roger dropped the sugar cubes into the tea, he inquired, "When will the new footman start service?"

"Tomorrow, I think," his father clarified.

...

The next day, as Colonel Curbishley had said, the manor's new arrival came.

Colonel Curbishley himself was ill, taken with a cold. His wife was at a friend's house. That left Roger as the proverbial man of the house. The servant opened the door and the footman was standing on the doorstep, a small suitcase in his hands.

Roger had never been so captivated by anyone; the man's smile was infectious. Roger brought himself back into the present and shooed away the servant.

He got a better look at the boy. It was the fellow who was serving drinks at the Mapletree affair.

"You must be Davenport," Roger greeted him as society would have him do.

The footman nodded gleefully, his face innocent and intelligent, but as their eyes met, a spark of recognition was ignited. "Indeed I am, sir. Pray, what am I to call you?"

Roger considered. His name was far too informal, his surname was a little too formal. He settled for 'sir'.

"A servant will show you to your room," Roger told him dutifully. "You shall get a tour of the building tomorrow, but I am sure you are aware of your duties in general."

Davenport nodded eagerly. "Yes, sir. Thank you. I am very pleased to be in this household, I hear that your family is quite distinguished." He was about to launch into another tirade when convention reared him in and he fell silent.

Roger smiled to himself, wondering why the man seemed so glad to have the job, a simple job, of pouring wine, waiting on tables, opening doors and answering the telephone. Yet, as he reminded himself, the place and class from which Davenport came was miles away from the life he knew.

A servant showed Davenport to his quarters. The servant's quarters were on the top floor of the house and there were two main rooms: One for the male servants, one for the female servants.

Roger's bed was almost a pallet, situated in the far corner of the room. Beside it were four other beds. A chest of drawers, suitably sized for one person, was next to the bed.

He sat down on the mattress, hearing the springs creak and squeak. Taking our his suitcase, he opened it and took out his clothes and belongings, stashing them away in the drawers.

When he was done, he sat on the bed and pondered. He was sure that he had seen the gentleman somewhere before.

...

A week had passed and Davenport had comfortably settled into his new role in the Curbishley household. His duties of the most recent day included waiting on the table at breakfast, brunch, lunch, dinner and serving wine throughout the day, bringing certain dishes and glasses into the kitchens, being yelled at by the cook for almost slipping on some spilt soup, helping to clean the family car, answering numerous telephone calls and relaying as many messages.

He was exhausted the following day; never had he known so much work, demanding work at that.

Halfway through the day he resorted to flopping down beside a tree on the lawn, his limbs achy and tired.

On coming to the Curbishley household as the footman, Davenport had brought a few books with him, for that was all he could fit in his tiny suitcase.

He had picked one and taken it to the tree where he planned to rest. He opened the first page, trying to force his eyes to stay open. His leg was a little hurt from tripping over an upturned plant pot, which only made his mood more grey.

He leant against the tree and began to read.

 _My father's family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip. So, I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip._

His eyelids grew heavy and he began to snore, slowing drifting into an uncomfortable slumber.

"Davenport," a voice called. "I say, Davenport!"

Davenport rolled over, only to find himself face-to-face with an ant hill. He groaned and got into a seated position. He looked up, shielding his view with a hand, to see someone standing over him.

He leapt to his feet. "Mr Curbishley, sir," he said abruptly, the words louder than they needed to be.

"You can sit back down, Davenport," Roger said calmly. "I can see you were quite engrossed in your book. Don't let me hinder you."

"I am sorry, sir," Davenport said hurriedly, the sentence a torrent from his mouth. "You see, it is hot and I am tired, not that that is any excuse."

Roger nodded slowly, thoughtfully. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "If you have no duties, then read on."

Davenport frowned but then nodded cautiously. He tried to read the next paragraph, but sensed that Roger had not gone.

"May I join you?" Roger asked.

The footman jumped. "Why, yes, sir. It would be a pleasure."

Roger hunkered down in front of the tree. "What title is that?"

 _"Great Expectations,"_ Davenport said swiftly, adding a late 'sir'.

"Ah, Dickens," Roger murmured. "Have you ever read any works by Agatha Christie?"

Davenport thought. He shook his head. "No, sir. A woman?"

"Yes. She writes detective novels. It is rather splendid. A little like Conan Doyle, you see," Roger elaborated. "My mother is a close friend of Mrs Christie."

Davenport grinned. "They are well acquainted? That is marvellous. I only wish I knew an accomplished writer such as she."

Roger smiled. "As do I."

"Sir, what is your opinion of _Great Expectations?"_ Davenport asked.

"I do remember studying the book in school. As well as Shakespeare," Roger said absently. "I think it was a pleasant read, most engaging."

Davenport nodded his agreement. "I am but on the first chapter."

"Then I shall leave you to it," Roger decided, standing up. "Do tell me what you think of it when our paths next cross."

Davenport looked up and their eyes met, for a split second, then Roger was on his way and was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Chapter 4! And thanks for the review, Duria Blue. ^-^**

The rain was battering down, the wind was howling, people were complaining. Why he had decided to take a jaunt when the weather was so dismal, Roger could not care to remember. He urged his driver to speed up their return to the house. The car's windows were quickly steaming up and Roger could barely see out of the windows.

The streetlights were trying their best to illuminate the path ahead but the sky was much too dark for their efforts not to be in vain.

As the rain continued to pour and despite the pitch blackness around them, Roger caught sight of movement. Vague, almost invisible movement, but movement nonetheless. He squinted at the sight, ordered his driver to slow down as to get a better look.

"Sir," the driver began worriedly. "It is rather late and dark. What is it you wish to do?"

"Not do, Jenkins," Roger murmured, still straining to see the shady movements. "But see."

Driver Jenkins frowned but nodded. "Of course, sir." He slowed the vehicle's movement to a crawl. "Would you like me to stop?"

Roger nodded but did not look up from his observations. "Please."

The car came to a halt, the handbrake went up. The driver turned off the ignition and the streets were silent except for a hollow yell.

Roger's head came up. He opened the car door. "Wait here," he told his driver, stepping out of the vehicle.

"Sir, are you sure-?" Jenkins' voice trailed out after him.

Roger heard the noise again, a groan, a shout. He had to squint in the hazy light, but his eyes had adjusted to the darkness.

He went to the wall where he could hear the sounds and see the movements. He could make out four figures. Three had their backs to him, one was apparently pinned against the wall.

Roger stalked forward. "Hey!" he called to them. The three looked around to see him. Their complexions paled; that was evident even in the fading light. They looked gormless.

The one who looked to be in charge snorted. "What has it got to do with you?" he sneered.

"It has everything to do with me," Roger replied bluntly.

"Push off," another warned him, shoving one of the figures back against the wall.

Roger shook his head. "I'll call the police." He waited to see what effect his threat would have on the three youths.

"The pigs?" the first one repeated. "They don't even know what day it is."

Roger frowned. He pulled one of them backwards. "You're only boys," he observed, wrinkling his nose up. He noted the pale, unfed faces of the three boys. He had not yet noticed the fourth one.

"Go on," he gave them the choice. "I shan't call the police."

Someone coughed. Roger now saw the other figure, who had taken to hunkering down on the ground, coughing and groaning.

"What have you done to the poor man?" Roger said, to either himself or to the yobs, he did not know.

"Keep out of this," another of the youths spat.

Roger, taller than them all, stepped over to the ailing figure and brushed the assailants off.

He felt a restraining hand grip his arm. Before he could react, a foot had made sharp contact with his stomach. He wheezed and bent over. As he stood up, a fist punched him in the mouth. He tasted blood.

He did not want to fight back. He knew he could. His image depended upon it, though. He would not sacrifice it for simple revenge.

"Fine, I'll go, shall I?" Roger said exasperatedly. "Go and tell the police."

"You wouldn't dare, sir," they said derisively. "Not if you value your posh head."

Roger let himself laugh. "Run along, boys. You've had your fun. If beating the living daylights out of the homeless is fun."

They sneered and swore but scurried away, carrying their empty threats.

Roger thought a moment, then bent down beside the coughing victim.

"Are you well?" Roger asked. "Well enough to stand?"

The figure spat and blood came out. "Yes, I'll be fine."

Roger recognised the voice, but he was not sure from where.

"Do you have a house, somewhere you can go?" he asked.

The stranger groaned. "Yes, yes."

"Perhaps my driver could take you," Roger offered.

"I live at the Curbishley residence. I am the footman," he answered.

"Davenport?" Roger mouthed.

He smiled and coughed simultaneously. "Thank you, sir. I'd probably be unconscious if it weren't for you."

"I only did what any decent man would do, Davenport," Roger said, justifying his actions. "Come on, Jenkins can take us both home."

"Sir?" Davenport said, confused. "I wouldn't want to burden you."

"Davenport, I'm Lady Eddison's son. You can't argue with me," he said.

Davenport sighed. "Very well. But, honestly, I am fine."

"You're bleeding," Roger pointed out simply.

"It will stop," Davenport countered. He reached up to catch the blood dripping from his jaw.

"Still, it is better to be safe than sorry," Roger said.

Davenport nodded. "You're right. I feel a little dizzy."

"Can you stand?"

Davenport put it to the test. Using the wall as support, he shuffled to his feet. He slipped on the wet cobbles, only to be caught by Roger. He gave him a look of gratitude, but their eyes did not wander apart from each other.

Roger cleared his throat. "Come, the car is just down here."

Jenkins raised an eyebrow when two men came back to the car. He saw that it was footman Davenport and said nothing of it.

The car journey was silent, except for Davenport's occasional coughing. They pulled up on the gravel drive of Curbishley manor, Jenkins sorted out the car, Roger and Davenport left the vehicle.

Davenport caught sight of his bloodied face in a mirror in the hallway. He swallowed and went to inspect his wounds.

"I'll call a maid," Roger said.

Davenport shook his head. "No, sir. I don't wish to wake them. It is rather late." He winced when he touched a particularly painful scratch. "I need only find a wet cloth." He retrieved one from the kitchen, wet it in the sink, then pressed it strategically to his face, as well as his hands, which were covered in defensive wounds.

"Sir, you must get some sleep," Davenport said to Roger.

"It's already past midnight. Most of the night is gone anyway," Roger replied.

As Davenport turned away to clean the cloth, Roger caught sight of a streak of blood on the back of the man's neck.

"Davenport," Roger said quietly. "Pass me the cloth."

The footman hesitated. "No, sir. I couldn't- I said I would do it. Honestly, you get some rest."

"You've been injured on your neck," Roger told him. He took the cloth and pressed it to the back of Davenport's neck.

The footman bit his lip. "I have never heard someone call me by my first name since I came into this household," he said absently. Since he had joined the Curbishleys a month ago, everyone had known him as Davenport.

"What is your Christian name?" Roger asked.

"Charles."

Roger nodded. A thought entered his head; a thought relating to social etiquette. What was he doing? Tending to a servant's wounds? Asking a servant's first name? He shook his head fervently, dropping the cloth in the bucket.

Davenport thanked him for his kindness.

"It was no trouble," Roger murmured.


	5. Chapter 5

A few days had passed since Roger had scared away the thugs. The day was much more pleasant; the sun was shining, the air was warm. He smiled to himself as he strolled about the garden, only to be interrupted in his cheery thoughts by coughing sounds.

He went over to the tree. "Davenport," he said, frowning slightly. "Have you got a bit of a cough?"

The footman smiled, coughed. "Must have been brought on by that chilly weather," he decided.

"Yes, it was rather ghastly. Well, it is good to see that you are out and about," Roger said.

He nodded. "Sir, pardon me if I seem forthright," he began.

Roger felt confusion wash over him for a split second.

"But," he continued. "You helped me a great deal with those yobs in the street. I might have been mincemeat." He made a face at the thought.

Roger was not sure whether it was the prospect of Davenport being hurt or the fact that Davenport was thanking him so whole-heartedly that made him feel giddy. A smile twitched on his lips. "As I said before, I was glad to have been of help." But he would not have done that for anyone.

"I had better get back to the kitchens," he said abruptly, getting to his feet. "Or old Madge'll have me if I'm late again."

Roger gave a wry smile. "'Old Madge'?" he repeated.

Davenport blushed. "Oh, uh, Mrs McKinnon."

Roger nodded slightly. "Ah, I see. Anyway, I have kept you long enough. Perhaps I will see you later."

Davenport considered a moment. "Nah, my shift does not finish until gone ten."

Roger's eyebrows shot up. "As late as that? I say."

Davenport nodded glumly. "I do not mind one bit. I like it here, you see. Plus, I enjoy speaking with you. It's nice to know that not all masters think their servants are there to wipe their feet on." He

caught his tongue. "Sorry, Sir, I didn't mean to be rude. I had better get back to work."

Davenport hurried off, taking his G _reat Expectations_ with him. Roger watched after him.

He decided to take a detour of the kitchens. Something in his mind was telling him too. He had no other things to be doing, besides trying to perfect a bit more Mozart on his piano. He would not dare see his friends for some time, considering the unfortunate, embarrassing incident in the brothel a few months ago.

The kitchens were hot and steamy and noisy. Very noisy. Pots and pans clattered and clanged, ovens overheated, but that was not the source of most of the noise. That was courtesy of, as Davenport and most of the staff called her, Old Madge.

The plump woman shuffled about the kitchen shouting shrill orders to cooks and maids and butlers alike, though she barely seemed to be doing much work herself.

Roger could not help but feel a little out of place; all the dithering servants, cooking his dinner, while he stood in the doorway in his tailored suit.

"You clumsy oaf!" he heard someone complain. Through the hazy air he noticed Old Madge's lips move, a saucepan wielded precariously above her head. "That mess ain't gonna clean itself up."

Roger frowned and was about to reprimand the coarse, rude woman. Then he caught sight of the poor soul at the receiving end of her anger.

Davenport clambered about on the floor, a cloth in his hands as he tried to mop up the spilt wine. He was aware that the entire kitchen staff was watching his plight but they were put back to work by Madge.

Roger stood there a few moments more, then decided that he could stand it no more. He went into the kitchen and confronted Madge.

"Mrs McKinnon," he said calmly, looking down at her. "What has this young man done to anger you so?"

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, he's such a clumsy boy. Gets in the way, spills the wine. Always making a mess of the simplest tasks."

Davenport, meanwhile, was still floundering on the ground, but less so. He had managed to remove most of the sticky wine and had dumped the soggy cloth in a bucket.

He watched Roger with wary eyes, wondering what he would say next.

Roger looked around the kitchen. "I appreciate the stress that you are under, Mrs McKinnon," he said forcefully. "But Alex- Davenport," he corrected, "is young and has only been here a month. He does not yet know the ropes."

She almost scoffed. "Know the ropes? It's a bleedin' kitchen, not an observatory. It is the same as any other kitchen."

A muscle in Roger's jaw twitched. "All the same, a well-treated servant performs well."

She raised an eyebrow, then grunted and called her subordinates to get back to work.

Davenport was about to pick up a tray of wine when she shook her head. "Why don't you take your break now?"

He twitched but complied, glad to be free of the place.

Roger followed Davenport out.

"Does she always treat you like that?" Roger asked.

Davenport did not look back as the two of them walked on. "Do you always interfere?" he muttered.

Roger sighed and sped up his pace.

Guilt slowly washed over him. "I'm sorry, Sir," he said quietly. "I'm just so very tired and fed up."

"I thought you said that you liked it here," Roger said with a frown.

Davenport shook his head. "Sir, you could not understand, not really. Being a servant is not fun. Yes, it is better than going down the mines or begging on the streets, but it's still like you're living your life for someone else."

Roger nodded. "I could never understand that, no," he agreed. "I can try."

Davenport let loose a little smile. "Old Madge isn't really that bad. Not usually. She just hates her kitchen being made a mess of. See, it's the one thing, I think, that she can feel proud of."

"Still, her actions hardly are necessary with that reasoning," Roger argued. "If need be, I can speak with my father."

Davenport knew the point of Roger's offer and promptly declined. He was as worse off as Madge McKinnon and he would not want even her to be with nothing to her name.

Roger did not understand. He could not. He was from an entirely different world almost to Davenport and Madge. "If ever you need her reprimanding, all you must do is ask," he said sternly to Davenport, face-to-face.

Davenport smiled gratefully. "Thank you," he said genuinely. "Now, I had better wash. I have wine on my face, I feel." He grinned.

Roger shook his head, his hand almost reaching up to touch the footman's face. "There's nothing there."

Davenport's green eyes flickered down to the side and he saw the slight movement of Roger's hand. He swallowed, cleared his throat.

"Nevertheless, I had better get going," he said quietly.

A servant walked past. Roger instantly turned away from Davenport.

When the servant had gone, despite his words, Davenport did not quite move. He was not going to, did not want to, would not have had it not been for Roger.

"Yes, so must I," the gentleman said quickly, rubbing his neck. "My piano skills shan't improve without my playing the instrument." A short smile formed.

Davenport stepped aside, as was proper, for him to leave.

As Roger made his way to the drawing room, he sighed, his hand on his forehead. He came across his mother.

"Roger, dear," she said, sounding worried. "What is wrong with your head?'

He thought perhaps some of the wine had founds its way to his forehead. A ridiculous notion, he amended. "My head, mother?" he repeated. "Nothing is wrong with my head."

"Then why were you rubbing it?" she asked.

He thought. It was a logical question. He could not tell her why he was rubbing his head; his brain was hurting so much, with all the ideas and prospects and thoughts running around in there.

He put on a smile. "No reason. It's just a little hot, is all." He went over to the piano and sat down at the stool. "How have you been faring?"

She smiled and nodded, sipping gingerly at her hot tea. "Very well," she answered. "It is good to see you at that piano again. It cost an awful lot and you have not been playing it as much recently."

Roger knew that that was an invitation to tell her why he had not played it recently, but he ignored it. There was no way he could make her aware of the increased amount of time he was spending with Davenport, which was the true reason for the lack of attention that the piano was receiving, something which the events of today only made him see how risky the situation really was.

But nothing had happened. That was what he kept telling himself. If it was going to, then it would have already happened. And it has not.


	6. Chapter 6

"Will I never be free of this ghastly thing?" Roger muttered to himself, strolling about the gardens of the Curbishley manor, wineglass in hand.

Davenport frowned. "What thing?" he echoed, having to increase his pace to keep up. "Whatever do you mean?"

Roger sloshed the red liquid around in his glass. He stared at it. "Marriage. I mean marriage."

"Oh, I see," Davenport said. "What of it?"

Roger shook his head and downed his wine.

Davenport proffered the bottle to him.

"No, thank you," Roger said detachedly. He recalled Davenport's question. "Everywhere I go, everywhere I look, my mother and father mention marriage."

"Reminds me of a book I once read," Davenport murmured. As the silence fell, he said quickly, "Sorry."

Roger smiled slightly. "No, please, do tell me of the book. Perhaps it can take my mind off this."

Davenport composed himself. " _Pride and Prejudice._ It's rather old I think, but not much seems to have changed between then and now."

Roger nodded. "Yes, I know. I am old enough to make my own decisions. Sometimes I wish I was working class. At least then I could marry whom I wanted to."

"You wish to be of working class?" the footman repeated, astounded, if a little upset by Roger's flippancy. "That's, why, Sir, that is ridiculous."

"It was rather," Roger amended. "You misunderstand. What I mean is, the lower classes get to choose their husbands and wives. I get no such luxury. I still need my prospective spouse inspected by Mother and Father," Roger continued.

Davenport tried to understand. He nodded, the only response he thought fit to give.

"Regardless, I am expected to attend the ceremony," Roger said.

"When is it?"

Roger shrugged. "Next week sometime," he replied.

"Are you well acquainted with the bride and groom?" Davenport asked.

"Hmm? Oh, not really. One of my father's business partner's daughters, I think," he answered.

"Mother is not too happy about the match."

"Why?" Davenport asked in a small voice.

"She wanted me to marry the girl."

"And you're not disheartened by her marrying someone else?"

Roger shook his head bitterly. "No, I didn't want to marry her. She was so very dull, always going on about trivial things."

Davenport bit his lip. He made a noise of understanding, then took Roger's glass and bowed his head slightly. "Well, I had better return these to Old Madge- Mrs McKinnon," he reiterated, gesturing to the tray.

Roger nodded. "Indeed. Has that woman been giving you any more aggravation?" he then asked, honest concern rising in his voice.

Davenport shook his head quickly. "No, not really," he said solemnly. "I am grateful for your interference." He smiled slightly, the corners of his mouth jerking up.

.…

The day of the wedding came, the affair passed with little interesting happening, the Curbishleys returned home.

Roger returned to find Davenport sat by his usual tree, his nose buried in a book.

"Still reading?" Roger inquired as Davenport rose up to receive him.

Davenport, momentarily flustered by Roger's appearance, smiled. He picked up his dropped book. Brushing off its cover, he grinned. "Indeed, Sir. How was the wedding?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Roger answered, looking bored. "They exchanged rings and said their vows, the certificates were signed, food was eaten, dances were danced."

"It does sound rather dull," Davenport added.

"I certainly shall not marry," Roger muttered.


	7. Chapter 7

Madge McKinnon glared at Davenport through her greasy red hair.

The footman stood, frozen almost, by the woman's angry stare. He opened his mouth to apologise but no words came out.

"What are you standing there for?" she quipped. "You'll catch flies!"

Davenport shut his mouth. "Sorry, ma'am, I-"

"I've got half a mind to tell Mr Curbishley about your incompetence," she warned him, waving a spatula in an accusatory manner, far too close to his face.

Davenport stepped back and looked around. He wondered for half a moment if any of the kitchen workers could see his plight but he knew that they were probably to scared of Old Madge to do anything about it.

"Where d'you think you're goin'?" she inquired, having lowered the spatula.

"I was going to leave," he said honestly.

"Leave?" she repeated, half-cackling. Davenport winced at her foul breath. "Why, I've not finished with you yet."

So he stood still and waited for her to finish her rant.

"I mop this floor four times a day, y'know," she complained. "Four bloody times. Do I ever get a thanks for it? No. Of course I don't."

Davenport raised a quizzical eyebrow, curious as to her inference.

"You see," she continued. "I'm a servant. As are you. I respect my position in this household and treat my superiors with the warranted respect." She paused, then resumed her tirade. "You, boy, you pander to that Curbishley fellow like a lap dog. Sickening. You'll get no pay rise or commission from acting so sickly sweet, I tell you."

Davenport felt the thoughts running around in his heads. But that was all they were. Thoughts. He had not acted on them. He wanted to. Putting Old Madge's piercing glare and irritating presence to the side for a while, he realised that he understood what he meant. For, he was often, if not, always, seen with the Curbishleys' son. He failed to see how he could not be, though. For, they were friends, good friends.

"Go on then," Madge said abruptly, breaking his train of thought. "Attend to your duties somewhere else. You'll only get in the way here."

"I am trying to help," he said forcefully, his politeness almost painful to get out.

She scoffed quietly, then her attention was taken by a maid who seemed to be putting too much seasoning on a dish. Madge gave her a telling off, then returned to Davenport.

"No, off you go," she said, waving her hands.

"Please, ma'am, I've barely been here a few months. I've yet to do anything awfully bad. I don't wish to have my reputation damaged because you have some dislike for me," he said, his voice wavering in certainty throughout.

She frowned and thought. "Dislike? No, I don't dislike you. I'm sure you can be a good friend, but that's not important in the kitchen. You need punctuality, perseverance, respect and-"

"Tolerance?" he muttered.

"And you need not be clumsy," she finished. "Now, you've wasted enough time of mine." She turned away, ready to harass some more workers.

Davenport was left to walk away with a confused mind and a wounded pride.

He had not thought that he was clumsy, nor did he think that he got in the way. He was not socially awkward, nor was he rude.

He knew not to let Old Madge McKinnon's ignorance get the better of him, so hher walked steadily to the gardens; no doubt there would be some refreshments needed.

He wondered why the old cook was such a conceited, facetious woman. She had never been married, never had any children, he presumed, for she had no wedding ring. He shuddered at the thought. Perhaps that was why she felt it fine to treat people ill.

Whatever it was, Davenport had the feeling that no reason could do her actions justice. His pace quickened and he strolled down the halls, up from the basement kitchen to the main quarters of the house.

"Davenport?" he heard a voice call, a voice that sounded concerned.

The footman turned around and stopped.

"You're off at such speed, whatever for?" It was Roger.

Davenport harrumphed. "Old Madge really must have it in for me."

Roger frowned. "I've offered to have a word with my father regarding her ill-equipped approach."

Davenport sighed and shook his head. "I know, I know. And I am grateful for you offering, Rog- Mr Curbishley."

"Roger is fine," he assured him.

He grinned awkwardly. "Yes, well, I suppose I can get used to it. After all, I rarely see her, when you think about it."

"You see her more often than not," Roger reiterated, a slight frown creasing his brow.

Davenport nodded glumly. "She told me that I act inappropriately towards the household."

Roger raised an eyebrow. "Inappropriately?"

"No, no, not like that," Davenport said quickly, his throat catching. "I mean, obsequiously."

"What nonsense," Roger dismissed it.

"She sounded rather convinced," Davenport added. "She said that I am like a lap dog - to you."

"A lap dog?" Roger repeated, apparently mortified. "How absurd!"

Davenport tried to join in with the humour but could not. "I had better go to the gardens. I'm sure drinks are needed."

"Jeeves is already there, serving mother," Roger said. "I am not busy."

"You wouldn't mind me accompanying you?" Davenport queried.

Roger's gaze flickered down to Davenport's. His hand came up and brushed against the footman's arm. Davenport's heart jumped. He leant forwards, his eyes closed, as did Roger.

Their lips a hair's breadth apart, Roger shied away. Davenport blinked and went bright red.

"I-" he began, lost for words. "I am so sorry. Really, sir, uh, I mean, Roger. I really had-"

Roger cut him off. "Alexander, be quiet. It's of no consequence."

"No consequence?" Davenport repeated suddenly, his voice wobbly. "Then why did you pull back?"

Roger cleared his throat. "It was entirely inappropriate."

Davenport's face fell.

"A maid was walking down that corridor," he added, pointing.

The footman smiled slightly. "I thought perhaps- you were ashamed."

Roger smiled. "Ashamed?"

Davenport shook his head. "Of course you are," he said pre-emptively. "How could you not be? I'm so sorry, Roger. So very sorry. I should never have instigated this."

"Alexander," he said firmly. "Nothing has happened. Don't alarm yourself."

"What of honour?" Davenport said, his tone rising. "I have damaged yours. What was I thinking? Old Madge is right. I am the fawning puppy she says I am."

Roger thought to comfort the man but changed his mind. "You are over-reacting, honestly."

Davenport wanted to believe him and he tried.

"If it is any consolation, my parents, I feel, think it increasingly odd that I am not married," Roger said. Before Davenport could answer, Roger suggested, "Come, this is all rather strange, talking in the hallway. We might as well take a walk into the town."

Davenport agreed. "That sounds fun," he consented. "You were saying, about your parents, have they spoken to you yet?"

"Spoken to me?" Roger echoed. "Oh, I see. My mother has tried subtly to ask, but she has not yet gotten anything out of me."

"What has she said?" Davenport asked as they walked.

"Oh, mostly about my refusal to wed, but more recently regarding the supposedly inordinate amount of time that I spend with you," Roger replies stiffly.

"Inordinate?"

"I said that it was time well spent," he defended. "I don't think she liked that much."

They were silent for a while, until they came to a bench. They sat down and Davenport said, "It's not as easy for us lower classes to marry whom we want as you may think."

Roger nodded. He remembered his earlier thoughts on the subject. "In what way?"

"My mother always writes to me, once a week," he said with a smile. "But, in every letter, she asks me if I have found a nice girl."

"And have you?"

"No."

As silence fell over them, Davenport wondered what to do, or say, to make the time pass with any more ease.

"I should have brought my book," he said idly. "We could have read it together." He wavered on the last word.

Roger felt a smile form on his lips. "We could have," he conceded. "Though the sun is rather bright; I doubt if we would have been able to see anything."

Davenport nodded. "Returning to our conversation about women," he began. "Are you really never going to get married?"

Roger wanted to say that he would never do it, that it had never crossed his mind. But it had. Often. He already seemed odd to society; a man in his mid-twenties not yet wed. The majority of his friends had wives and children.

"I have considered it," he replied.

"Considered?"

"In detail," he continued, looking ahead. "Not for my own benefit. I can't think of anything worse than having a woman around me all the time." He grinned slightly. "Regardless, Mother and Father both have high hopes for me."

"I heard about Lady Morentyne getting married yesterday," Davenport added. "She has married one of the royal family, I think."

Roger nodded. "A distant relative - very distant - of the prince of somewhere," he said with a smirk.

Davenport laughed. "Marrying royalty," he mused. "That is impressive."

"Her father has large stakes in several mining operations," Roger justified. "He out-bid my father once."

"Your father has interests in mining?"

Roger made a face. "Oh, no," he said quickly. "This wasn't a mine. It was a farm, I think. Over a year ago, in Gloucestershire."

"That's quite a distance," Davenport observed.

"Indeed. We were going to have to sell the estate and move there," Roger said.

"I suppose it is good that your father did not win the farm," Davenport said.

"Why?"

"Then I would never have met you, had you gone to Gloucestershire."

Hours passed and the time came for them to return to the Curbishley manor.

They hired a cab, which took them near enough.

The driver tipped his hat and took his payment, then drove off.

"Have you any idea of the time?" he asked Roger.

He took out his pocket watch. "Quarter past four," he said.

"Oh dear," Davenport muttered. "I just give Old Madge incentives, don't I?"

He hurried off to the kitchens.

Roger raised an eyebrow but said nothing of it, despite feeling a little responsible for Davenport's always being on the receiving end of the cook's temper. He made his way to the library and was about to take out a book when he smelt smoke.

He slotted Macbeth back into the shelf and turned around. "Father, you startled me there."

Colonel Curbishley, sat in his wheelchair, had a book resting on his knee and a pipe in his mouth.

"Come, son," he said. "Sit with me a while. I barely see you. Where do you go nowadays?"

Roger pulled up a chair opposite his father.

"Tea?" the Colonel offered, but Roger declined.

"It's not to the pub, is it?' his father queried.

Roger shook his head vehemently. "No. Of course not."

He nodded and smiled briefly. "You had refused those two marriage opportunities. I suppose you have a woman in mind and you're going to meet her."

Roger, again, shook his head. "No, Sir. I am not."

His father looked confused. He took out his pipe, then put it back in his mouth again. "Hmmm," he muttered. "Where do you go, then? Your mother is worried. She says she is not, but she is." He paused. "You look confused, why?"

"I'm not," Roger protested. "I just- oh, I think I feel a bit responsible."

"Why?" His father's face darkened. "What have you done?"

"Nothing criminal, Father," Roger quickly said. "There is just a small issue with one of the staff."

"Really?" He did not look convinced. "Who?"

Roger cleared his throat. "McKinnon," he said. "The head kitchen maid."

"She is an excellent cook," his father mused. "Really rather good." He smiled.

Roger considered for a moment. His father rarely smiled. He supposed that Madge McKinnon's culinary skills must greatly surpass her interpersonal skills. For that reason, he stood up and laughed quietly. "Nevermind," he said. "I am sure she was just having a bad day. As you say, she is a good cook and they are rare these days."

His father nodded warily. "Indeed. Now, son, are you sure there was nothing else?"

Roger shook his head. "No, Sir. It is all quite fine." On his way out, he reached for Macbeth, but never took it out.

Dinner would not be for another few hours, so he decided to attend to his piano-playing skills, then had second thoughts when he realised that his mother was having tea with some of her lady friends in the conservatory. He turned on his heel and recalled that he should tell Davenport that he had brought the issue about Madge McKinnon's sportsmanship up with his father. The talk had not gone as planned, but he felt the need nonetheless to inform the footman of his interference, to see whether it was wanted or not.

He went to the kitchen, but, poking his head round the door, he couldn't see Davenport. He sighed and continued his search in the servant's quarters upstairs.

The stairs were rickety the higher up the house.

He found Davenport's room and knocked.

"Who is it?" the voice called.

"Roger," he replied.

He heard some scuffling about in the room.

"Can I come in?" Roger asked.

"Uh," the reply came, almost incoherent. "Yes."

Roger turned the doorknob, where he saw Davenport with his back turned, facing towards the window.

"Are you well?" Roger asked, staying where he was.

Davenport sniffed and rubbed his head. "Huh? Yes. I'm fine."

Roger frowned. He stepped forward. "I came to tell you that I told my father about Mrs McKinnon."

Davenport turned around and faced him.

Roger blinked at the sight of the premature bruise on the side of Davenport's forehead. "What on Earth-?" he began.

"It is nothing," Davenport said dismissively.

"No, you need to see a doctor," Roger contested.

"I need no doctor," he argued. "I fell over. You know me."

Roger would not be fooled. "Alexander," he said simply.

Davenport sighed. "I swore at Madge," he muttered.

"Whatever did you say?" Roger asked.

Davenport touched his smarting head. "You don't want to know. Anyway, she was angry. Understandable, I suppose. So she hit me."

Roger was aghast. "She hit you?"

"With a ladle." Had the circumstances been different, he would have laughed.

Roger didn't find it amusing. "Does it hurt?"

"Not really. It wasn't a hard hit," he answered. "I did deserve it, though."

"No," Roger said softly, stepping forwards. "How do you feel about me telling my father?"

"I would rather you had not," he admitted. "But thank you."

"I told him, but it felt wrong. It was your problem and I think I took it upon myself to fix it," Roger said measuredly.

"Don't feel bad for it," Davenport said, trying to make the best out of a bad situation.

Roger smiled briefly. "I still think I had better call a doctor." He gestured to the footman's wound.

"No, I am fine. Roger," he said firmly. "I feel tip-top. Nothing is wrong."

Warily, Roger nodded. "If you feel unwell, tell me, won't you?"

"Perhaps it is best if I do not," Davenport argued. "See, it must look odd. All this time we spend together." He remembered how trapped he felt when Old Madge called him Roger's lapdog.

"I understand," Roger said agreeably. "But we are friends, are we not?" He saw Davenport's nod of agreement and continued. "Then- what does it matter how much time we spend together?'

Davenport considered. He shrugged his shoulders. "I see your meaning," he said and smiled.

The bell sounded for dinner.


	8. Chapter 8

His head still hurt quite a bit but the pain had subsided. A light bruise had formed on his temple. He didn't really know whether he should feel angry or grateful because Roger had told his father about the Madge McKinnon issue. Of course, Davenport wanted to be thankful, as he knew the effort that Roger had likely gone to. Besides, Davenport realised that he was extremely lucky to have gained the favour of a gentleman such as Roger Curbishley. Roger had been under no regulation binding him to act on Davenport's misfortune. He had done what he had done because it was the right thing to do.

But still Davenport had other feelings. He felt as if it were an intrusion. He was old enough to be dealing with his own problems and yet he had told Roger and the man had tried to sort it out. He sighed and absently touched his bruises head.

He shook the idea from his mind and decided that the past was the past.

"Davenport?"

He turned around to see a maid standing to his left.

"Yes?" he asked.

She gestured up the stairs in the hallway. "Mary's ill, you see," she told him. "So there's no one to call for dinner. Well, I can a little. But I think I must've injured my foot, so I shan't be able to go up stairs. You're free, aren't you?" She looked at him.

He frowned. "What about the bell?" he asked, confused.

"It's broken, says Mr Curbishley," she replied. "Sometime soon a new one will have to be bought, though."

"Of course I can," he agreed. "Should anyone be upstairs, I can call."

She smiled and then walked on.

As the day progressed, Davenport had managed to stay out of Madge McKinnon's way, but he fancied that his luck would run out. So, with that nagging thought at the back of his mind, he went up the stairs to see if anyone was not yet at dinner. He knocked and then entered the family's rooms, but they were all empty, except one.

"Sir," he said. "Dinner is ready."

Roger looked up from his book and smiled over at Davenport. "It's rather early. I say, what are you calling me for? Where's the bell?"

Davenport came over to him. "One of the maids said that it broke not that long ago."

"It was rather old," he added.

"What are you reading?" the footman asked, trying to get a glimpse of the front cover.

 _"The Picture of Dorian Gray,"_ Roger answered. He turned a page.

"I liked that one," Davenport asserted.

"Yes, it is good," Roger agreed. "But I can't say I like this Sybil Vane much."

Davenport laughed. "She doesn't last very long."

Roger read on and turned a few pages. "I see."

"It's sad what happened to him, don't you think?" Davenport muttered.

Roger nodded, almost caught unawares. "Yes, but that was the law then."

"It is the law now."

Roger drummed his fingers on the table. "It is a ludicrous law."

"May I see the book?" Davenport asked.

Roger held it out, Davenport took it, their fingers touched. It was the briefest of contact but it was enough for Roger to stand up. His movements were guided by Davenport, who had set the book down and was looking at him directly.

He leant forward and kissed Roger gently, almost as if their lips had never touched. Roger flinched but soon relaxed and drew his arms around Davenport's waist. Davenport ran his hands up Roger's chest, neck and through his hair.

The kiss intensified slowly and Roger pulled back. "Dav- Alexander," he breathed.

Davenport paled. "I-"

"Shh," Roger said quietly. "You're going to apologise, I know you are."

Davenport was speechless.

"Don't say you are sorry," Roger said.

"I am not," Davenport managed to say. He went to kiss him again. Roger consented, but only briefly. "They will be wondering where I am," he said.

The footman acknowledged. "Of course." He cleared his throat. "Will I see you again today?"

Roger smiled and walked with him to the door. "I should hope so."


	9. Chapter 9

"Mr Curbishley?" the name was called frantically by one of the maids. "Sir?" She wondered if he would ever reply, or nod, or look at her.

Finally, he looked up from his newspaper and focused on her. He flattened the paper and nodded.

"Yes, what is it?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but the telephone line seems to be damaged. That's why I have been sent to tell you," she began conspicuously.

He frowned. He began to grow concerned, not least because of the broken phone. "And why is it urgent?"

She swallowed and composed an answer. "My name is Lyla, sir. I'm a cousin of Mr Davenport."

Roger was about to speak but lost his words.

She took the silence as a reason to continue. "As you probably know, he was staying back in Hornton in the weekend. He caught flu whilst there, so he shan't be returning for some time."

"And why are you telling me?" he asked, his sense of decorum getting the better of him.

She seemed taken aback but was otherwise unfazed. "Sir, he asked that you be told."

Roger rubbed his eyes and folded the paper. "Thank you," he said briskly. "What is the address?"

She started, then told him.

Without a word, he left the house and made his way into town. He hailed a cab lest his own driver be any more suspicious.

As the journey came to an end, Roger saw Davenport's father's house. It was a small cottage, with the tiniest of gardens. Roger couldn't help but feel a little out of place, with his top hat and tailored suit.

He knocked on the door.

"Who are you?" the answer came as a middle-aged woman opened the door.

At first, Roger gauged her to be the maid but corrected himself when he realised that Davenport's family would have no such servants.

"I am Roger Curbishley," he said. "My mother is Lady Eddison, my father is Colonel Curbishley. Mr Davenport works in our household. I have come to see how he is, for I heard that he is sick."

She raised an eyebrow; it was not often that the upper classes came to the neighbourhood. "Thank you, sir, for showing an interest." She stepped aside and pointed him to the stairs. "Room on your left."

Roger approached the door and couldn't but feel wrong in his actions. He wanted his heart to eclipse his brain but years of being brought up a certain way made him intolerant of indecency and impropriety.

Yet his brain could not give him love or protection or belonging; he opened the door.

"Roger?" Davenport exclaimed, as he struggled to sit up in the bed. "I didn't think that you would come."

"Why ever so?" Roger asked as he took up a chair.

Davenport smiled shyly. "I am a servant."

Roger sighed. "I don't care."

"You do not?" Davenport asked.

"No," Roger clarified, putting his hand on Davenport's. "I was getting worried, Alexander. I had not seen you for a while."

"Did Lyla tell you?"

Roger considered, wondering who Lyla was, then remembered. "Oh, yes."

"How long can you stay?"

"As long as need be," Roger answered.

"At least I can be free from Madge for a little while," Davenport mocked.

.…

A few days had passed and Davenport was back on his feet. He had come with a few extra things and Roger had had his driver Jenkins. take Davenport back to the Curbishley manor. Davenport got out of the car and carried his things to his room. He put the things away in their designated draws, then checked his appearance in the mirror. He brushed his hair back and straightened his suit. Satisfied, with time to spare, he made his way to the kitchens, where he was less than warmly received by Madge McKinnon, not that it bothered him. He took a tray of drinks, where he offered one to Colonel Curbishley in the library. He went to the drawing room, where he found Roger, reading.

"Would you like a drink, sir?" Davenport asked him, from behind.

Roger almost jumped. "I had no idea you were returning so quickly." He smiled. "Please," he said, gesturing to the wine.

Davenport handed him a glass, which Roger took and then stood up. "If I am honest, I missed you."

"But you came to see me," Davenport said.

"Regardless," Roger argued. "It seemed strange, to not see you here for so long."

"I am here now," he said quietly, his eyes meeting Roger's. He hesitated, then slowly, gently kissed him.

Roger smiled against his lips but withdrew hastily when he heard footsteps. He saw his mother enter mere moments later.

Davenport, too, saw her. He reddened and almost cursed. Instead, he offered her a drink.

She smiled and waved it off. Then she went to speak to her son. As Davenport left, he caught Roger's eye and made a face of relief.


	10. Chapter 10

The sun was setting and the moon was coming. Davenport wiped up and cleaned up the tables, balancing used wineglasses on a tray, ready to be taken to the kitchens. He made his common journey to the kitchens, carefully juggling much more than was the recommended amount for the tray to carry. He handed the things over to the maids, ready to be washed and dried, for the family to use in the morning.

He yawned and wondered if he would finish work early enough for him to read a bit of his book.

He was halfway through Ivanhoe and was beginning to wonder why he had brought it with him. He had managed to get in a great deal of reading when he had the flu not that long ago. He could now add _War and Peace, Dracula_ and _The Invisible Man_ to his repertoire. Roger had offered to ensure that Davenport was paid while he was sick but Davenport had declined, for that was not the sort of treatment that other ill staff would get.

At least, that was the reason that Davenport had given Roger, but Roger knew that Davenport was worried for his reputation. Roger had assured him that he took full responsibility for any damages to his image that might ensue. It was his reputation after all.

Davenport bade the maids and cooks and cleaning staff goodnight, then began to start his duties of making sure that the house was tidy and presentable for the next day. He straightened chairs and polished a few surfaces. Satisfied with his work, he went up the stairs.

Then he heard a sound. A jangling spun. He frowned and went back down the stairs. He suddenly had a horrid thought; had he locked all of the doors and windows? He retraced his steps and felt like he should let out a sigh of relief, but there was still the problem of the origin of the strange noise.

Everyone in the house was either asleep upstairs, or working in the kitchens, so it was very quiet. He could even hear the birds.

The noise started again and Davenport recognised it as belonging to keys. He wondered who it could be. Who would enter the house so late?

He went up cautiously to the door and looked through the little peephole. His eyes widened at the sight. He threw the door open and stared at the man.

"Roger!" he exclaimed. He never called him 'Sir' anymore, not when they were alone. "What on earth are you doing?"

Roger coughed and smiled broadly. "It's not that late."

Davenport smelt alcohol on his breath. A lot. "It is," he said firmly. "Very late. Where have you been?"

Roger shrugged and wretched. Davenport prayed that he wouldn't be sick.

"Come inside," Davenport suggested. "It's cold outside." It wasn't particularly, but he needed something to persuade him.

Roger grinned. "Inside?" he repeated. "I'd love to come inside, if you'll come with me."

Davenport swallowed, then calmed. "Yes, I will come with you. I'm not going to leave you in this state."

Roger stepped up the platform into the house, aided in his walking by Davenport. Roger was taller and so reasonably harder to manoeuvre. Davenport suddenly realised that he had nowhere to take Roger.

"Aren't we going upstairs?" Roger asked, his eyes barely staying opened.

Davenport stepped back from his wine-smelling breath. "No," he said after a while. "You should probably have some water," he said, feeling out of his depth. He told Roger to sit down while he fixed some water.

Roger did not listen, but stood behind Davenport. He kissed his neck. Davenport span around and tried to set the glass down. "Roger, I am being serious. I am a servant, I know, but I thought you respected me. Listen to me."

Roger tried to think about those words, his synapses dulled by liquor. "I do trust you," he said waveringly.

"Then let me get you some water," Davenport argued.

"I don't want water," Roger said obstinately. "I want you." He looked into Davenport's eyes.

Davenport, pressed up against the wall, could not deny that he wanted to agree, defiantly. "Roger, I- think we shouldn't-"

Roger's eyes were tinged with sorrow, so Davenport added, "Your mind is probably not at its best. Wait for the alcohol to leave your system."

"I cannot wait that long, Alexander," he said, struggling to pronounce his name.

Davenport knew he shouldn't, but leant forward and kissed him. He did not regret it, he could not, but wished that he had not been so weak. Roger was surprised by Davenport's unexpected reaction, but did not complain. He smirked and kissed him back, fervently. He tousled Davenport's hair and kissed his neck, his cheek, his lips. As they pulled back and their eyes met, Roger tried to remove Davenport's jacket. Davenport consented and shrugged it to the floor. He threw himself back onto Roger and soon they both were without jackets. Davenport's shirt was slightly undone; soon it was was gone. Roger pushed him against the wall. Davenport was instantly aware of the cold material touching his increasingly warm back.

He felt a jolt of something enter his brain. He gently pushed Roger off and looked at him sincerely, though he found it hard to ignore the longing. "Roger, we shouldn't."

Roger looked downcast. "Why not?"

"Not now, not here," Davenport elaborated. "This is the dining room for God's sake! It is the middle of the night. You're inebriated. You do not know what you are doing."

...

Roger woke up the following day with a headache. A very bad headache. He groaned and turned over, feeling a terrible sensation in his stomach. He closed his eyes and sighed, trying to remember what had happened the night before, where he had been, what he had done.

A shadow fell over his face and he looked over to see if anyone was in the bed with him. It was clear. He frowned. Then he quickly fell back to sleep.

But he was woken up shortly after by a knock at the door. He murmured a welcome and Davenport stepped through the door.

"What time is it?" Roger moaned.

Davenport glanced at the clock. "Six o'clock."

"I slept for four hours?" Roger announced, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

"I thought, perhaps, if you got up early and had a good breakfast, your - symptoms would be less obvious to your parents," Davenport reasoned.

Roger thanked him but paled at the mention of his parents.

Davenport closed the door and put a tray on the table. He took out a glass of water and some toast and fruit.

"I know it's not much, but it is rather healthy. The bananas, especially," Davenport reasoned. He handed the food over to Roger.

Roger stared at it, then began to eat it, slowly. "What happened yesterday? Last night?"

Davenport sat down on a chair, but Roger motioned him over. He awkwardly perched on the bed and began. "You came home, around one in the morning."

Roger's eyes widened as he continued eating. "Where had I been?"

"I don't know. You did not tell me that," Davenport replied. "But you were drunk. Quite, in fact."

"Nothing else happened?" Roger asked.

Davenport paused. "Well, not really."

Roger's raised eyebrow told Davenport that he should substantiate. "We kissed and- but nothing else."

"How could I have been so stupid?" he cursed. He drank his water in one swig.

Davenport paled and tried not to look dejected.

Roger smiled. "No, you misunderstand. I mean my drinking. How did I get so drunk?"

Davenport shrugged. "It does not matter, but you should probably rest. I'll leave you alone."

"You needn't be so good to me," Roger said. "This is my fault. You're too good. For me, anyway."

"No," Davenport argued. "Don't be ridiculous. Would you like some peace?"

Roger smiled. "Thank you."


	11. Chapter 11

Davenport returned to his duties with a smile on his face. That day, he did not care about his clumsiness, nor did Old Madge's brutal tirades bother him. He couldn't help but cringe as he gave Lady Eddison her red wine in the afternoon. He could never tell her, never insinuate, that he cared so deeply for her son. Davenport sat down on a wall in the garden and pondered. If anyone were to find out... It did not even bear thinking about. He sighed, overwhelmed and confused. What if a maid saw them? What if Roger's parents saw? He rubbed his temples and yawned. He had had little sleep last night, what with spending half of it cleaning and dusting, as well as having to sort out Roger. He had spent the rest of the night worrying about him, worrying about what could happen in the future.

Little did he know, he had been sat there for an hour. Time goes quickly when one has a lot to think about; Davenport certainly had a lot.

He jumped up and jogged back to the house. He came to the drawing room and felt his heart skip a beat when he saw Roger once again. It seemed like such a short time ago when he had seen him come home late last night, when... He shook his head free from the thoughts and almost froze when he saw the figures of the Colonel and Lady Eddison in the conservatory. They looked to be in quite a heated debate.

Davenport forgot his usual reserved and polite ways and went to the conservatory, lingering by the door. He would have been easily seen, for the room was glass, but a bookcase occupied the wall by the door, so he crouched behind it. He found that sound travelled better through glass than it did through concrete and managed to hear a few words of the husband and wife.

"You must have noticed something!" Lady Eddison demanded.

Davenport frowned and adjusted his position at the door.

Colonel Curbishley snorted. "I did not. Nothing at all."

"You are unobservant," she remarked. "How did you not hear the door sounding so late at night?"

"I was sleeping," he replied. "As men do when it is night."

She ignored his sarcasm. "It must have been him, who else could I have been?"

"A servant, perhaps?"

"No, no," she argued. "It was Roger."

Davenport almost fell backwards and steadied himself promptly.

Colonel Curbishley continued. "Why does it matter? There is no harm in the man coming home late every now and then."

"It hardly befits a gentleman, do you think?" Lady Eddison retorted. "That is besides the point. I saw Roger outside, Hugh."

"And I believe you, Clemency, I do. But he is old enough to look after himself. He is not a boy anymore."

"Which is even more worrying," she said. "He is supposed to be married, not living here."

Davenport knew what was coming next.

"He must marry," she continued. "But I don't think he will."

"Why ever not?" Colonel Curbishley asked.

Davenport bit his lip.

"I saw him being helped by a servant into the house," she replied. "I think his name is Davenport. He's been with us for a year, I think."

A year and fifteen days, Davenport thought.

"Clemency, what is your point?" Colonel Curbishley asked. "It means nothing that the boy helped him inside. Why, if anything, the boy should be thanked for helping Roger."

Lady Eddison was quiet for a moment. "Maybe I am overreacting," she muttered.

Davenport breathed a sigh of relief.

"But this feeling is niggling me," she added.

"I assure you, Clemency. I know my son. This is ridiculous paranoia. Just because Roger spend a little too much time with the footman is no reason to raise the alarm. Believe me, don't worry. Perhaps you would like some tea?"

She smiled and seemed relieved. Davenport quickly stepped away from the door when Colonel Curbishley rang the bell for some tea. Then he realised that he would have to bring the tea. He wouldn't have to, but it made sense. The kitchens were nearby and he was probably the closest staff member to the Colonel and the Lady.

So Davenport did his duty. He carried the tray over, carried the teapot, sugar cubes, milk and cups and saucers.

"Milk, Madam?" he asked Lady Eddison.

She nodded and waited for him to pour the milk in the tea. "Davenport, is it not?" she said, looking at him.

He was silent then replied. "Yes, I am Davenport."

"Thank you for the tea," she said absently, sipping at it indifferently. In the corner, Colonel Curbishley was watching his wife.

Davenport left with a frown. In the year and fifteen days that he had been in the Curbishleys' service, the Lady had never said thank you for anything he had given her.

He brought the tray to the kitchens and went to find Roger, who was still in the drawing room.

"Can I talk to you?" Davenport asked him shyly.

Roger looked up from his book with a creased brow. "Of course. What is it?"

Davenport came over to him, wary that the Colonel and Lady could probably see them from the conservatory. "Not here," he said.

Roger got up and nodded. "What is it, Davenport?"

The two of them went into the dining room, out of view.

"I heard your parents talking of you. Well, us," Davenport finally let on.

Roger raised an eyebrow and stepped over to him. "How did you hear them?"

"I put my ear to the wall and, well..." Davenport answered.

"Alexander," Roger began dangerously. "You shouldn't have-"

Davenport sighed. "I know, I know. But I had to. You see, I think, well, I don't know... If we can still- if we can still see each other in the same capacity," he said, confusing himself. "We shall have to be more discrete."

Roger listened carefully and simply nodded. "What makes you say that?"

"Well," Davenport said. "Lady- Your mother saw you come in late last night."

"What else did she see?"

"She saw me, helping you inside," Davenport answered.

"Anything else?" Roger asked.

"Nothing else."

"I knew this would happen," Roger sighed.

"No, don't despair," Davenport said quickly. "Your mother said that she saw no more. Your father didn't seem to believe her. To be honest, I don't think she believed herself."

"Perhaps it was because she didn't want to believe," Roger said idly, rubbing his forehead.

"This is all my fault," Davenport murmured.

"What?" Roger said, shocked. "How so?"

"Oh, Roger," he muttered. "Your reputation, your pride, they are both in the balance," he said.

Roger tried to smile. "It is not your fault," he said. He saw that Davenport was not convinced. "All this self-blaming won't help."

Davenport sighed. "I know, Roger. I'm just so worried for you-"

Roger cut him off with a held up hand. "Stop worrying, Alexander. I have told you before: I take responsibility."

Davenport, at last, nodded and agreed.

"I-" Roger began, breaking off. "I love you, Alexander. I wouldn't engage in this if I did not feel that way about you."

Davenport felt giddy. He looked up, wide-eyed, at Roger. "You love me?"

"I think I do," Roger said with a smile. "I do."

Davenport beamed. "And I love you, too." He pressed his lips to Roger's.

Roger caught him as he stepped backwards. "This may be unconventional," he began.

"And illegal," Davenport said glumly.

"But I don't care," Roger said, conceding to Davenport's remark.

"Nor do I," Davenport agreed. "But we'll have to be discreet."

"I suppose so," Roger said with a grin.

"I should probably go," Davenport said. "I mean, we talk of discretion, so I shouldn't really spend too much time with you."

Roger shrugged. "What defines 'too much'?" he asked. "Each man calls it differently to the next."

"You're right," Davenport said. "I will try to see you later."

"I will endeavour to make that a certainty."

...

Later on, in the waning light of the evening, Davenport was attending to his duties. The Colonel and Lady Eddison had retired to bed quite early. Davenport wondered what it would be like to be able to go to bed before eleven at night, to be able to wake up after six in the morning. He shrugged off those petty thoughts and stacked some wineglasses upside down on a tray, ready to take to the kitchens.

"My endeavour was successful," he heard the familiar voice in the doorway.

Davenport put his tray down and smiled. "It was."

"Are you busy?" Roger asked him.

Davenport was about to say 'yes' when he reconsidered. "Nothing that can't wait a while." He went to Roger and put his hands around his neck.

Roger looked down at him and smiled back. He kissed him gently, then more forcefully.

"Can this wait?" Davenport asked teasingly.

Roger gave him a wry smile and they stalked as quietly as possible to the upper floor. Naturally, they went to Roger's bedroom.

Davenport almost swore as he stooped to catch a vase that had gotten knocked over in their attempt to walking along the landing whilst kissing.

"Here it is then," Roger replied.

Davenport had already half-removed his suit and was struggling with his boots. He threw them off and Roger laughed at his keenness.

They drew together, bodies against each other, lips always touching, hands on each other, trying not to make too much noise.


	12. Chapter 12

The morning came slowly. The sunlight streaked in through the open curtains. Davenport awoke, his head on Roger's chest. He smiled.

"Good morning," Roger said, his eyes closed.

Davenport smiled. "It is. What time is it?" He sat up.

Roger pulled him back. "It's time to go back to sleep."

"It's autumn. The sun's up. It must be quite late," Davenport observed.

Roger shrugged. "Oh well. I think we deserve a rest."

Davenport punched him in the arm. "Roger, I'm being serious."

Roger reached out and massaged his shoulders, kissing his neck. "Are you?"

Davenport gave in and kissed him back. "Five more minutes."

They kissed again and again, ignorant of the passing time. The sunlight was getting steadier and warmer, but they took no notice.

They did not notice the knock at the door either. Nor did they notice the squeaking as it opened.

"Sir-" the butler began. "Oh my."

Davenport froze where he was, on top of Roger. He glanced down at Roger and swore.

Davenport clambered off him and ended up beside him. Roger drew the cover over his bare chest and grew red. "Don't you know how to knock?" he yelled at the butler.

The elderly butler said nothing, but looked simply aghast.

"Christ, man, have some manners," Roger cursed.

Davenport was unbelievably awkward.

The butler caught sight of the clothes scattered over the floor and swallowed, pulling at his collar.

"Leave us- me- us," Roger spluttered. "And mind your own business." He waved the butler to

leave and shut the door.

He cast a look over to Davenport. Davenport, overcome with guilt and shame, leapt out of the bed and pulled on his clothes. "I'm sorry," he said hurriedly, before leaving.

Roger could do nothing but watch him leave and lie back down in bed.

But his conscience and his propriety got the better of him. He got dressed and went downstairs.

He saw the butler and wanted to shy away, but knew that he had to put the record straight.

"I have come to ask a favour," Roger began waveringly, looking the elderly man straight in the face.

The man seemed uncomfortable, though Roger was not surprised. After all, the man had seen him half-naked, in bed with a servant.

"What is it, Sir?" the man asked, keeping his propriety.

Roger wondered how on Earth the butler kept his cool. He did not know how but he was thankful for it. "This morning's, uh, event, was unfortunate," he began. "I want to ask for your word that you will not say anything of it again." He winced at his words; he had no other way of saying it. He could not force the man into submission.

The butler, without hesitation, nodded. "Yes, Sir, as you say."

Roger's stupefied look gave him cause to continue. "It is none of my business."

Roger nodded slowly, relieved, but confused. How did the man ignore convention and decorum? He supposed that the word of a servant was nothing against the son of a Lady's. After all, Roger's actions had no direct impact on the elderly butler.

Roger neglected to thank the man, but could not be entirely happy, for he still had the matter of finding Davenport. He checked in the servants' quarters, but that was futile, as were the kitchens.

He flopped down on the couch and sighed.

"Roger, dear, what is it?" he heard his mother's voice, full of concern.

He looked up at her and straightened up. "Nothing, Mother. I'm just thinking."

"Thinking?" she repeated. "Thinking about what?"

He shrugged. "It probably won't interest you." It would probably disgust her, he thought.

She looked unconvinced, then nodded curtly and gestured to the piano. "Why don't you play something?"

"I would rather not," he replied shortly.

"How about _Für Elise?"_ she asked.

He could tell that she was not going to give up, so gave her a quick, hurried rendition, cursing why she would not just listen to the radio, then thought of a terrible excuse to leave.

Then he remembered the one place where Davenport might be. He went at once to the gardens. They were large, acres and acres of grass and pruned hedges and neat little flower beds. The distant humming of cars rattling past filled the air, drowned out only by the birds.

"Davenport?" he called, before changing his mind and addressing him by his first name. "Alexander? Let me speak with you, please." He repeated himself.

In the midst of despair, Roger came to the tree where the two of them had met so often. Davenport was not there. Roger, running out of leads, went past the conservatory, past the tractor.

"Alexander!" he yelled. "Please, stop this."

Davenport turned around. He needn't wonder who it could be calling him. Only Roger called him by his first name in the Curbishley residence.

Roger went over to him, turning him around by the arm when he looked away.

"Just leave me be, Roger," Davenport said desperately.

"I cannot," Roger countered. "I won't."

Davenport sighed and looked around him. "I can't even begin to express how ashamed, how sorry, I am." He hung his head.

Roger lifted his chin up and looked at him deeply. "Alexander," he said softly. "Stop this. I spoke with the butler."

Davenport shrugged his hand off and looked away.

"Listen to me," he said firmly. "He will not say anything."

"Secrecy?" Davenport repeated, offended.

Roger winced. "It has nothing to do with anyone else. Why should we care if anyone knows?"

Davenport couldn't believe his naïveté. "Because it is illegal," he answered.

"Alexander," Roger said, stepping forward. "I would gladly risk everything for you." He reached out, gently stroked Davenport's hair.

Davenport wavered in his reply. "I don't like this... this deceit," he murmured. "This is wrong."

"Our love is wrong?" Roger echoed.

Davenport could see the hurt he had caused. So he quickly kissed him, pulled back, then said, "No. I didn't mean that. It is as right and as good and as strong as any other love. But most people will not see it that way."

Roger nodded glumly. "I know. I would be stupid not to see it, but is it stupid to not want to see it?"

"It is if you risk your reputation, your family name," Davenport muttered. "I know little about the world you come from. All of this tea in the afternoon, wine all the time, golf and tennis, I know little. But I know enough to understand how much social standing is."

Roger sighed and rubbed his neck. "Then you understand well," he said absently. "But, come,

Alexander, as long as no one finds out - no one else - we can be together."

"I hope you are right," Davenport said.

"You are not convinced."

"No. I don't need to be. I believe you, I love you," Davenport replied, a slight smile playing on his lips. "You're right. What should we care about what others say?"


	13. Chapter 13

Davenport started the record player, marvelling at the fascinating device. He glanced up at Mrs Chandrakaka, who peered at him with scrutiny.

"Look sharp, boy," she told him harshly. "We have guests."

Davenport frowned. Guests? Who? He finally sorted out the record player and tried to remember who the guests could be. Roger would have told him if they were to have guests.

"Good afternoon," a tall, bespectacled man in a brown suit said to them all.

Davenport tried to stop himself from frowning. The man looked strange, out of place, somehow. Yet he did his job and approached them with beverages. "Drinks, Sir?" He then turned to the woman at the man's side. "Ma'am?"

"Sidecar, please," the woman said, with a smile.

"And a lime and soda, thank you." /span/p

The head servant, a man named Greeves, stepped aside to let them see Roger's mother, Lady Eddison. "May I announce," he declared briskly. "Lady Eddison."

The two guests shook hands and acquainted themselves with the woman.

"Forgive me," Lady Eddison said. "But who exactly might you be, and what are you doing here?"

"I'm the Doctor," the man said. He introduced his friend. "And this is Miss Donna Noble, of the Chiswick Nobles."

Donna curtseyed, an action which she accompanied with an over-the-top, "Good afternoon, my lady. Topping day, what? Spiffing. Top hole."

Roger and Davenport exchanged amused looks.

The man who called himself the Doctor looked down at the woman and shook his head. "No, no, no, no, no. No, don't do that. Don't."

Then he took what looked like a wallet out of his coat pocket and showed it to Lady Eddison.

"We were thrilled to receive your invitation, my lady. We met at the Ambassador's reception."

"Doctor, how could I forget you?" She smiled. "But one must be sure with the Unicorn on the loose."

The Doctor grinned. "A Unicorn? Brilliant." He looked around. "Where?"

"The Unicorn," she said firmly. "The jewel thief. Nobody knows who he is. He's just struck again. Snatched Lady Babbington's pearls right from under her nose."

"Funny place to wear pearls," Donna remarked.

Roger, who had been standing beside Greeves, pushing his wheelchair-bound father, was introduced by the servant, as was his father.

Lady Eddison smiled proudly. "My husband, and my son."

"Forgive me for not rising," Colonel Curbishley said gravely. "Never been the same since that flu epidemic back in eighteen."

Davenport watched with slight anxiety as Roger approached Donna and smiled. "My word, you are a super lady," he complemented.

"Oh, I like the cut of your jib. Chin, chin," she said hurriedly, apparently taken aback.

The Doctor held out his hand and grinned. "Hello. I'm the Doctor."

"How do you do?" Roger said, shaking his hand.

"Very well," the Doctor replied.

Davenport bent down and proffered the tray to Roger. "Your usual, Sir?" he offered, with a barely contained smile.

Roger caught his eye for a slight moment, but looked away lest they be noticed. "Ah. Thank you, Davenport. Just how I like it."

As the Doctor and Donna conversed a fashionable, pretty young woman stepped forward.

"Robina Redmond," Greeves introduced her.

Lady Eddison and Robina exchanged pleasantries and Greeves introduced another guest.

A ginger vicar smiled and politely introduced himself.

Lady Eddison seemed concerned. "Ah, Reverend. How are you? I heard about the church last Thursday night. Those ruffians breaking in."

Davenport understood her concern now; apparently some hooligans had broken into the church, looking to steal some Bibles.

Colonel Curbishley spoke again. "You apprehended them, I hear."

The reverend looked slightly uncomfortable, but he replied. "As the Christian Fathers taught me, we must forgive their trespasses. Quite literally."

Roger looked up from his drink. "Some of these young boys deserve a decent thrashing."

Davenport fought back a grin. "Couldn't agree more, sir," he said, giving Roger a pointed look.

"Now, my lady," Roger said to his mother, adopting his polite tone again. "What about this special guest you promised us?"

"Here she is," she introduced a tall, blonde-haired woman. "A lady who needs no introduction."

Davenport was flabbergasted. The woman was a best-selling author. He had read all of her books. Well, the ones that he had access to, and he was completely delighted.

"No, no, please, don't," the woman pleaded, embarrassed. "Thank you, Lady Eddison. Honestly, there's no need."

She introduced herself to Donna and the Doctor. "Agatha Christie."

Donna frowned. "What about her?"

"That's me," she clarified.

"No. You're kidding."

"Agatha Christie," the Doctor said idly. "I was just talking about you the other day. I said, I bet she's brilliant. I'm the Doctor. This is Donna. Oh, I love your stuff. What a mind. You fool me every time. Well, almost every time. Well, once or twice. Well, once. But it was a good once.

Agatha Christie looked he and Donna over. "You make a rather unusual couple."

"Oh, no, no, no, no. We're mot married," the Doctor said quickly.

"We're not a couple," Donna clarified.

"Well obviously not," Agatha Christie ascertained. "No wedding ring."

The Doctor smiled in admiration. "Oh. Oh, you don't miss a trick."

"I'd stay that way if I were you," she added. "The thrill is in the chase, never in the capture."

"Mrs Christie," Lady Eddison said. "I'm so glad you could come. I'm one of your greatest followers. I've read all six of your books. Er, is, er, Mister Christie not joining us?"

"Is he needed?" Agatha said with a smile. "Can't a woman make her own way in the world?"

Colonel Curbishley looked up and made a grim face. "Don't give my wife ideas."

"Now," Roger began. "Mrs Christie. I have a question. Why a Belgian detective?"

Davenport raised an eyebrow, as did Roger, at the Doctor's stealing of Colonel Curbishley's newspaper.

"Belgians make such lively buns," Agatha said in response to Roger's question.

"I say," Roger exclaimed. "Where on Earth's Professor Peach? He'd love to meet Mrs Christie."

"Said he was going to the library," the Reverend said.

Lady Eddison looked over at her maid. "Miss Chandrakala, would you go and collect the Professor?"

She nodded curtly and set off. "At once, Milady."

Davenport caught sight of the Doctor and Donna's conversation about the newspaper, though he struggled to hear.

"It's the day Agatha Christie disappeared," he heard the Doctor say.


	14. Chapter 14

"It's awful, don't you think?" Davenport said suddenly, looking over at Roger, who was staring at a spot in the garden.

"Roger?" Davenport prompted him.

"Yes?" He looked up. "What is?"

"Professor Peach," Davenport clarified. "I mean, who would want to kill him? So brutally as well."

Roger nodded severely. "I know. I saw the body."

"Who could do such a thing?" Davenport murmured.

Roger sighed. "I don't know, but they must have been quite strong. The poor man was completely bludgeoned."

Davenport winced at the thought. "Aren't you worried?"

"I can't worry," Roger said simply. "One of the guests, the man, he said that he is a policeman. I'm sure he will be able to catch the culprit."

"I hope you are right," Davenport muttered.

"Oh, yes, he was from Scotland Yard," Roger said, as if it backed up the words. "Try not to worry."

"I'll try," Davenport said softly, a slight smile on his lips. He looked to see if anyone was coming, then quickly kissed Roger on the lips.

"I've been asked to come to the sitting room in an hour or so," Roger said.

"What for?" Davenport asked.

"The Doctor, the policeman, whatever he is called, wants to interview us," he replied.

"He suspects you?" Davenport asked.

"Gosh, I hope not," Roger remarked.

And so, at the appointed time, Roger went with Reverend Golightly, his mother and father, to be interviewed about the ghastly business.

The Reverend was first. "Now then, Reverend," the Doctor said, with Agatha taking notes. "Where were you at a quarter past four?"

"Let me think," the Reverend said. "Why yes, I remember. I was unpacking in my room."

The Doctor nodded slowly. "No alibi, then."

"You were alone?" Agatha asked the Reverend.

"With the Lord, one is never truly alone, Doctor," he said calmly.

"And where were you?" the Doctor asked Roger.

"Let me think," he mused. "I was. Oh, yes. I was taking a constitutional in the fields behind the house. Just taking a stroll, that's all." He hated lying, but he did it lest his parents be embarrassed in the presence of guests, especially when one of those guests was Agatha Christie.

The Doctor leant forward. "Alone?"

"Oh, yes, all alone. Totally alone. Absolutely alone. Completely. All of the time." Roger tried to stop smiling at the memory of Davenport. "I wandered lonely as the proverbial cloud. There was no one else with me. Not at all. Not ever."

"And where were you?" the Doctor now questioned Robina Redmond.

"At a quarter past four," she remembered. "Well, I went to the toilet when I arrived, and then er, oh yes, I remember. I was preparing myself." She smiled. "Positively buzzing with excitement about the party and the super fun of meeting Lady Eddy."

"We've only got your word for it," the Doctor said genially.

"That's your problem, not mine."

Roget watched as his father was questioned.

"Dear me, let me think. Ah, yes, I remember. I was in me study, reading through some military memoirs," he claimed. "Fascinating stuff."

"Took me back to my days in the army. Started reminiscing. Mafeking, you know. Terrible war," he rambled.

"Colonel," the Doctor said loudly. "Snap out of it."

"I was in me study," Colonel Curbishley said.

"No, no, no." The Doctor shook his head. "Right out of it."

"Oh, sorry," he said quickly. "Got a bit carried away there."

Then Roger watched his mother be inquisitioned.

"And where were you at a quarter past four, my lady?" the Doctor asked the question again.

"Now, let me see. Yes, I remember. I was sitting in the Blue Room, taking my afternoon," she pondered. "It's a ritual of mine. I needed to gather strength for the duty of hostess. I then proceeded to the lawn where I met you, Doctor, and I said, who exactly might you be and what are you doing here? And you said, I am the Doctor and this is Miss Donna Noble."

"Yes, yes," the Doctor interrupted her. "You can stop now. I was there for that bit."

"Of course. Excuse me."

….

Davenport was leaning against the kitchen counter.

"A murder?" one of the servants commented. "That's put the cat among the pigeons and no mistake."

"It is not the stuff of gossip, Mrs Hart," Miss Chandrakala scolded her. "Continue with your work."

Davenport frowned. "But who'd want to do in the old professor?" he mused. "He was always asking questions about that book of his. What's all that about?"

"A dead man's folly," Mrs Chandrakala replied sceptically. "Nothing more. Though perhaps if he asked about? I must go and see Milady." Then she hurried away.

Davenport set about his work but was stopped in his tracks by a colossal shaking of the ground. Brow knitted, he went outside and saw the source of the vibration. He stared in horror as the Doctor, Donna and Agatha stood over her, trying to listen to the dying woman's last words.

Then the Doctor pointed to the roof of the house, but at what, Davenport could not see.

"There!" he said. "Come on."

.…

Lady Eddison mourned her lost friend. "My faithful companion, this is dreadful," she said in despair.

Davenport leant down. "Excuse me, my lady, but she was on her way to tell you something."

"She never found me. She had an appointment with death instead," she said grimly.

"She said, the poor little child. Does that mean anything to you?" the Doctor asked about the room.

Colonel Curbishley shook his head. "No Children in this house for years. Highly unlikely there will be."

Lady Eddison looked over at Agatha. "Mrs Christie, you must have twigged something. You've written simply the best detective stories."

"Tell us," the Reverend spoke. "What would Poirot do?"

"Heaven's sake," Colonel Curbishley cursed. "Cards on the table, woman. You should be helping us."

"But, I'm merely a writer," Agatha said simply.

"But surely you can crack it," Robina said. "These events, they're exactly like one of your plots."

"That's what I've been saying," Donna said. She looked over at Agatha. "Agatha, that's got to mean something."

"But what?" Agatha sighed. "I've no answers. None. I'm sorry, all of you. I'm truly sorry, but I've failed. If anyone can help us, then it's the Doctor, not me."


	15. Chapter 15

The Doctor, Donna and Agatha were examining a small metal box which Agatha had found rather peculiarly in the flowerbed.

The Doctor prised it open. "Ooo," he observed. "Someone came her tooled up. The sort of stuff a thief would use."

Agatha admired the lock-picking tools. "The Unicorn. He's here."

"The Unicorn and the Wasp," the Doctor muttered.

The butler Greeves came in with a tray of drinks. "Your drinks, ladies. Doctor."

The Doctor thanked him and took his drink. "Very good, Greeves."

With Greeves having gone, Donna asked the Doctor, "How about the science stuff. What did you find?"

"Vespiform sting," he replied. "Vespiforms have got hives in the Silfrax galaxy."

"Again," Agatha spoke up. "You talk like Edward Lear."

"But for some reason," the Doctor mused. "This one's behaving like a character in one of your books."

"Come on, Agatha," Donna said. "What would Miss Marple do? She'd have overhead something vital by now, because the murderer thinks she's just a harmless old lady."

Agatha smiled, bemused. "Clever idea. Miss Marple? Who writes those?"

Donna froze. "Er, copyright Donna Noble. Add it to the list."

"Donna," the Doctor said dangerously.

"Okay," she said half-heartedly. "We could split the copyright."

"No," he said heavily. "Something's inhibiting my enzymes." He coughed, spluttered, swallowed. "I've been poisoned!" He almost collapsed, writhing in pain.

Donna grew flustered. "What do we do? What do we do?" she repeated.

Agatha, much calmer, sniffed the Doctor's drink and drew back. "Bitter almonds," she murmured. "It's cyanide. Sparkling cyanide."

.…

Davenport finished putting the clean glasses away, stacking them neatly.

The kitchen door flung open and the Doctor came staggering in. He stumbled into Davenport and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Ginger beer!"

Davenport stepped back, into the counter. He stared at the man. "I beg your pardon?" he demanded, reddening with embarrassment.

"I need ginger beer," the Doctor spluttered, grappling with the kitchen utensils.

Davenport stared at him in shock.

"The gentleman's gone mad," he heard a maid remark.

The Doctor staggered over to a cabinet and drew out the ginger beer. He gulped it down, half of it going down his front.

Agatha shook her head. "I'm an expert in poisons. Doctor, there's no cure. It's fatal."

The Doctor spat out some of the ginger beer and coughed. "Not for me," he argued, almost out of breath. "I can stimulate the inhibited enzymes into reversal. Protein. I need protein." He looked around.

Donna handed him a jar. "Walnuts?"

"Brilliant." The Doctor poured as many as he could into his mouth.

Then he began gesticulating madly, his arms flapping about.

Donna shook her head. "I can't understand you. How many words?"

The Doctor gestured.

"One. One word. Shake. Milk shake. Milk?" Donna asked. "Milk? No, not milk," she said in response to the Doctor shaking his head. "Shake, shake, shame. Coctail shaker. What do you want, a Harvey Wallbanger?"

The Doctor frowned. "Harvey Wallbanger?" he exclaimed.

"Well, I don't know," Donna said defensively.

"How is Harvey Wallbanger one word?"

"What do you need, Doctor?" Agatha stepped forward.

"Salt," he said. "I was miming salt. It's salt. I need something salty."

"What about this?" Donna asked, holding up a salt shaker.

"What is it?" he asked, peering at it, his feet still unsteady.

"Salt," she replied.

He shook his head. "No, too salty."

Donna rolled her eyes. "Oh, that's too salty."

Agatha handed the Doctor some anchovies. "What about this?"

The Doctor took the jar and downed the contents.

Then he began miming again.

Donna despaired. "What is it? What else? It's a song? I don't know. Camptown Races?"

"Camptown Races?" the Doctor repeated, wide-eyed.

She sighed. "Well, all right then, Towering Inferno."

Then the Doctor seemed to know what he needed. He punched his chest as a look of realisation filled his face. "It's a shock," he said. "Look, shock. I need a shock."

Donna stepped forward with a grin on her face. "Right then," she said dutifully. "Big shock coming up." She grabbed the Doctor by the neck and pulled him toward her, kissing him long and hard. She released him and he stumbled back, holding the table for support.

"Detox," he said genially. "Oh my. I must do that more often." He felt the eyes of everyone in the room turn on him. "I mean, the detox."

Agatha stepped forward, astounded. "Doctor," she said in amazement. "You are impossible. Who are you?"


	16. Chapter 16

"Roger," Davenport spoke sincerely. "Perhaps we should leave."

"Leave?" he echoed, confused, surprised. "What on Earth for?"

Roger took him aside. "I don't know. This whole situation is deeply confusing. I mean, a gigantic wasp! First the professor, then Miss Chandrakala. What is going on?"

Roger picked up on his concern and offered him a small smile. "It is strange, I can't deny that."

"Then," Davenport said, yearning. "Why can we not leave? I don't like this. The Doctor, he thinks that he can solve this. I don't even think Mrs Christie can."

Roger sighed. "But where would we go?"

Davenport shrugged, despairing. "I know not," he sighed. "Anywhere. I can sense that something's not right. That... that creature, it won't just stop at killing two, it will want more blood."

"You're worried," Roger asserted. He cut off Davenport's protests, saying, "And so am I. But we are fine now, so why should we not be in a few hours' time? Trust me, we'll be fine." He cupped Davenport's chin and waited for him to smile.

But Davenport would not. "Please, Roger," he said desperately, as their conversation fell silent as a maid went past. "Can we go? Can we leave? Just for a day or two?"

Roger rubbed his temple. He shuffled his feet. "I want nothing more than to leave with you,

Alexander, but what would our excuses be?"

"I know it's not ideal," he conceded. "Us running off together, Lord knows what they'll think,

but I just have this feeling that something is going to happen." He sighed in frustration.

"You're getting yourself worked up, Alexander," Roger said calmly. "The Doctor and Mrs Christie will solve this riddle once and for all and then... and then we can be together."

Davenport's face lit up in a momentary smile. "I want that too," he agreed. "But, how can you not be concerned, after what happened? Two murders in one day is hardly usual. Come, Roger, let us leave. Even if we have to sleep rough. I want to get out of here before something else happens, but I don't want to leave without you."

"If you think you must leave, then leave," Roger said. "But I have to stay here. I have to look after Mother. Father, too."

Davenport saw the torn look on Roger's face, the dilemma, so gave in. "I'll stay," he finally decided. "Here. With you. As you said, why should anything happen?" He made an effort at a smile.

Roger grinned shortly and kissed his cheek. "I'll see you after dinner," he said, turning to leave for the dining room.

"Roger," Davenport called. "I love you."

Roger looked over his shoulder and gave him a knowing look of reciprocated affection.

...

Thunder and lightning clapped and shook overhead as rain pounded down on the roof and the walls. Windows opened and closed by themselves, doors creaked.

Davenport jumped as a lightning folk licked closer. It was miles away, but that was too close.

At one end of the table, the Doctor watched carefully the group around the table. "A terrible day for all of us. The Professor struck down, Miss Chankdrakala taken cruelly from us." He shook his head. "And yet we still take dinner."

...

Lady Eddison caught his eye. "We are British, Doctor," she said simply. "What else must we do?"

"And then someone tried to poison me," he continued. "Any one of you had the chance to put cyanide in my drink. But it rather gave me an idea," he said appreciatively, seeing if anyone seemed fazed by his revelation.

The Reverend looked up. "And what would that be?"

"Well, poison," the Doctor replied simply, holding up his glass. "Drink up. I've laced the soup with pepper."

Colonel Curbishley nodded. "Ah, I thought it was jolly spicey."

The Doctor nodded. "But the active ingredient of pepper is piperine, traditionally used as an insecticide." He cast his gaze over the table. "So, anyone got the shivers?"

No reply came but the roar of thunder and a wind blowing hard enough to open the windows and blow out the candles on the table.

Colonel Curbishley looked up and frowned, suddenly concerned. "What the deuce is that?"

The Doctor put a finger to his lips. "Listen, listen, listen, listen."

A slight buzzing sound appeared out of nowhere, low and vibrating.

"No, it can't be," Lady Eddison breathed, panic flooding her face.

Agatha roused. "Show yourself, demon," she demanded.

The Doctor raised his hands. "Nobody move. Stay where you are."

As the lights flickered and thunder clapped all around them, the huge, black and yellow image of a wasp the size of a horse appeared, hovering over the table, stinger poised.

Lady Eddison rose and screamed, her husband seemed frozen to the spot. The Doctor began to shoo everyone out. "Out, out, out, out, out, out."

Panic and chaos ensued. The windows kept banging and the lightning continued.

Agatha stepped forward. The Doctor, knowing what she was about to do, pulled her back. "Not you, Agatha. You've got a long, long life to live yet."

"Well, we know the butler didn't do it," Donna said, looking at Greeves.

"Then who did?" the Doctor asked.

They looked over at the dining table. Colonel Curbishley was clambering about on the floor, his wheelchair upside-down.

Lady Eddison looked down. "My jewellery," she cursed. "The Firestone, it's gone. Stolen."

Davenport looked hastily around the room and stumbled backwards. "Roger," he breathed, tears stinging his eyes and throat. His mind struggled to comprehend the sight. The wasp. The dagger. Roger. His Roger.

He almost fell into the bookcase, his decorum wavering and weak. He wiped his eyes and sniffed. He wanted everyone else to leave, to go. To let him be with Roger alone. To hold him in his arms and tell him that everything was going to be all right. But he could not. Not ever. He would never be able to touch Roger again. All that might have been would never be, everything that they could have done would never be done. For weeks he would hear people saying how it was such a shame that the gentleman had died, how wrong.

"My son. My child," Lady Eddison screamed.

Davenport watched her as _she_ went to her dead son, as _she_ held him.

He stumbled out of the room. No one would see him. He was only a servant. Roger had made him feel as though he was more than he was. Now he was just a servant. He struggled to compose himself as the other guests filed out.

But he had to continue with his duties. He had the memories of Roger, of their first meeting, first kiss. He thanked the world for that.

Across the hall, he heard Lady Eddison lamenting her son, in the drawing room, he heard Donna's words: "Roger's dead and he can't even mourn him. 1926? It's more like the Dark Ages. That poor footman."

 **A/N: There we have it! My first Doctor Who fic. Hope you all enjoyed it.**


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